THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 


THE  HOUSE   WITH 
A  BAD  NAME 


BY 

PERLEY  POORE  SHEEHAN 


BONI      AND      LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


Printed  in  (he  United  States  of  America 


IPS 


ToV.a 


93B832 


CONTENTS 


No.  6  CINNAMON  STREET i 

GLAMOUR 8 

SET  TO  Music 15 

UNOFFICIAL 21 

VAMPIRE 27 

"HE  DOES  NOT  KNOW" 33 

THE  MASTER 39 

A  PORTRAIT  BY  LA  TOUB 45 

OF  MME.  TYRONE 51 

"!N  HER  IMAGE" 58 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 63 

LOVE  SONG 69 

To  PARADISE 74 

THE  NEW  QUASIMODO 81 

THE  STRANGE  WOMAN 89 

THE  WOLF  COMES  Oui 95 

OF  BLOOD  AND  GOLD 101 

WEIRD  BLOSSOMS 108 

THE  LIGHT  AND  THE  DARK 115 

THE  OVERHANGING  CLOUD 121 

RETURN  OF  THE  LOVER 127 

THE  UNFINISHED  STORY 133 

THE  NIGHTMARE 138 

THE  OTHER  MOURNER 143 

OF  FLOWERS  AND  SPECTERS 149 

THE  DARK  CLAIMANT 155 

A  BID  FOR  CHARITY 161 

A  WREATH  OF  IMMORTELLES 167 

THUS  SPAKE  THE  SPIRIT 173 

"WHERE  Dro  You  GET  IT?" 179 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 185 

vii 


Contents 

PAGE 

MME.  DELILAH  AND  — 190 

—  THE  TEMPTING  OF  SAMSON 195 

WOMAN!    WOMAN!    WHO  ART  THOU? 201 

CROSS-EXAMINED 207 

MME.  GENESCO  GENERALIZES 213 

"AND  ON  MY  SERVANTS  — " 219 

As  BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN     .........  224 

ON  THE  WINGS  OF  AN  EAGLE 230 

THE  LIGHT  AT  THE  WINDOW 236 

Too  MANY  COOKS 241 

THE  CUP  OF  BITTERNESS 247 

AFTER  THIS  THE  JUDGMENT 255 

MR.  PARTRIDGE,  THIEF! 262 

SUSPENDED  JUDGMENT 267 

THE  BRIDEGROOM  COMETH 271 

DARK  o'  THE  NIGHT 276 

"KILEEVY,  O  KILEEVY!" 281 

THE  SMELL  OF  LOCUSTS 288 

IN  THE  MOMENT  OF  NEED 293 

MR.  TANTALUS 299 

THE  ONE  GREATEST  THING 306 

THE  WHITE  HUNTSMAN 312 

OUT  OF  THE  FULL  HEART 320 

BLOOD  OF  THE  LAMB 326 

ONE  DAY'S  GRACE 331 

"MALUME" 337 

So  MUC^FOR  So  MUCH 343 

THE  SECRET 34^ 

ERE  FADES  THE  ROSE 353 

"LET  HIM  FOREVER,  ETC." 359 

THE  INEVITABLE  HOUR 366 

THEY  VANISH              37? 


Vlll 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  A 

BAD  NAME 

CHAPTER  1 

JNO.  6  CINNAMON  STREET 

THERE  was  a  touch  of  the  grand  about  No.  6  Cin 
namon    Street — a  touch   of   the   grand   and   the 
mysterious.     There  was    something  about   it  to 
make  you  feel  as  you  might  feel,  say,  if  you  saw  a  once 
fine  gentleman  who  had  committed  a  murder,  and  had 
been  to  prison,  and  who  still  had  distinguished  manners 
and  tried  to  smile  it  down,  but  was  old  and  shaky  and 
distrusted — an  old  gentleman  who,  notwithstanding  all 
that,  still  wore  a  flower  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

Cinnamon  Street  itself  was  something  like  that.  It 
was  one  of  the  oldest  streets  in  New  York — far  down 
town  on  the  lower  West  Side.  Once  it  had  been  the 
main  street  of  a  village  on  the  outskirts  of  New  York, 
and  all  sorts  of  fashionable  people  had  lived  there.  Now 
it  was  changed. 

The  big  city  had  swallowed  it  up.  And  hardly  any 
one  lived  there  any  more  except  longshoremen  and  Italian 

I 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

grocery-keepers — people  like  that.  Recently,  moreover, 
a  broad  new  avenue  had  been  cut  through  this  part  of 
town,  paved  with  granite  and  lined  almost  instantly  with 
big  square  factories  and  warehouses.  This  alone  had 
wiped  out  about  half  a  mile  of  the  old  residences  which 
once  were  the  main  feature  of  Cinnamon  Street,  while 
the  other  end  of  the  street  had  been  condemned  and 
closed  altogether. 

But  No.  6  remained  intact. 

And  there  were  trees  in  Cinnamon  Street  to  either 
side  of  No.  6,  and  also  a  certain  air.  So  that  to  have 
stumbled  upon  it,  especially  in  this  part  of  town,  would 
have  been  like,  say,  finding  a  lace  handkerchief  in  a 
hardware-shop. 

No.  6  must  have  been  built  there  while  the  street  was 
still  fashionable.  It  was  so  old  that  you  could  have 
imagined  General  Washington,  for  example,  dropping 
in  there  on  his  way  home  from  church.  The  church  was- 
next  door — a  little  old  chapel  in  a  little  old  graveyard, 
both  closed  and  long  since  abandoned. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  presence  of  this  graveyard  that 
helped  to  give  No.  6  its  bad  name.  Old  Goodenough,  who 
was  a  driver  for  Pliny's,  a  livery-stable  down  the  street, 
often  paused  on  his  way  home,  especially  when  he  was 
in  his  cups,  and  he  was  generally  like  that,  and  recite  a 
bit  of  weird  verse.  Every  time  that  Goodenough  ran 
across  a  piece  of  poetry  about  ghosts  and  things  he  would 
commit  it  to  memory.  He  had  the  memory  of  a  genius 
when  it  came  to  haunts  and  pale  brides  coming  back. 
Old  Goodenough  would  look  across  the  street  at  No.  6 

2 


No.  6  Cinnamon  Street 

standing  there  next  to  the  graveyard,  and  he  would 
quote  : 

"No  one  walks  there  now ; 

Except  in  the  white  moonlight 
The  white  ghosts  walk  in  a  row, 
If  you  could  see  it,  an  awful  sight." 

No.  6  was  built  of  brick.  It  had  green  blinds  which 
were  almost  always  closed.  And  it  was  all  of  three 
stories  high,  not  counting  the  sunken  basement  and  the 
dormer-windowed  attic — a  noble  house— -noble  still  de 
spite  all  those  transformations  that  had  taken  place  in 
the  neighborhood. 

And  the  people  who  lived  in  the  house  were  noble, 
too — noble  so  far  as  wealth  and  tradition  were  concerned. 
You  could  tell  this  just  by  looking  at  them,  no  matter 
what  might  have  been  said.  They  had  a  look  of  grandeur 
about  them,  just  as  the  old  house  had,  whatever  the 
wild,  dark  stories  afloat  concerning  them. 

You  would  have  had  a  chance  to  see  them,  especially 
when  the  weather  was  fine ;  for  then,  as  likely  as  not,  old 
Goodenough  would  come  driving  up  to  No.  6  in  a  rattly 
old  victoria — which  in  itself  was  a  signal  for  every  one 
to  stand  and  stare. 

Then  the  door  of  No.  6  would  open  and  a  little  old 
man  would  come  nimbly  down  the  steps.  He  was  always 
dressed  in  black,  always  immaculate — high,  white  col 
lar,  open  at  the  front,  a  flat,  white  Ascot  tie,  his  snowy 
white  hair  brushed  forward  over  his  ears.  He  must 
have  been  seventy  at  least;  but  spry,  as  if  the  greatness 

3 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 
\ 

of  the  occasion  inspired  him  to  extra  effort.  The  butler 
he  was.  More  about  him  later.  And  he  would  take  up 
his  station  at  the  side  of  the  victoria,  every  line  and  glint 
of  him  bespeaking  servility  and  adoration. 

Nor  would  this  attitude  of  his  be  without  reason ;  nor, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  the  proud  way  in  which  Goode- 
nough — he  on  the  driver's  seat — would  draw  himself  up 
and  try  to  look  like  a  real  coachman,  in  spite  of  his  face 
of  a  vinous  old  philosopher,  and  his  saggy  round  back. 
Reason  enough  was  there,  also,  that  every  one  should 
stand  and  stare — Tony  Zamboni,  who  ran  the  corner 
grocery,  and  Mrs.  Zamboni,  and  all  the  little  Zambonis, 
and  such  truckmen,  loafers,  and  strangers  as  happened 
to  be  about. 

Among  these  latter,  there  happened  to  be  an  artist 
and  an  architect  one  day — both  of  them  young — just 
out  browsing  around  the  city,  seeing  what  they  could 
see;  and  they  had  come  upon  Cinnamon  Street  quite  by 
accident,  and  had  been  charmed  by.  it,  especially  by  No.  6. 
They  had  been  standing  just  across  the  street,  admiring 
its  delicate  tints  and  fine  old  colonial  lines.  Then,  there 
came  old  Goodenough  driving  up  with  his  ramshackle 
equipage. 

"By  Jove !"  said  the  architect.  "Isn't  that  great,  Hal  ? 
Isn't  that  wonderful?  The  old  house  was  just  about 
perfect  as  it  was — with  that  colonial  doorway  and  its 
knocker  and  everything,  and  now  to  have  a  real  old- 
fashioned  victoria  come  driving  up.  Jove!  It  makes 
me  feel  as  if  we  were  living  a  century  ago." 

4 


No.  6  Cinnamon  Street 

"Yes,"  said  Hal ;  "and  it'll  be  just  like  New  York  for 
some  cursed  fat  banker  to  come  out  and  spoil  it  all." 

But  they  stood  there  and  stared  in  silence  as  the  old 
butler  appeared  and  came  down  the  steps  and  took  up 
his  position  expectantly.  He  was  so  obviously  the  old 
butler — and  yet  with  a  face  to  remind  one  of  the  late 
Sir  Henry  Irving.  His  appearance  alone  would  have  been 
enough  to  warn  the  strangers  that  this  was  no  ordinary 
spectacle,  had  such  a  warning  been  needed — not  ordinary 
for  New  York,  at  any  rate.  And  the  deduction  would 
have  been  correct. 

After  a  brief  interval,  a  gentleman  appeared  at  the 
top  of  the  tall  stoop — not  just  a  mere  ordinary  man;  a 
gentleman !  This  gentleman  was,  say,  somewhere  around 
sixty;  he  was  very  handsome,  very  distinguished,  stately 
and  tall  and  gray.  His  gray  hair  was  long  and  wavy. 
He  was  dressed  in  gray — carried  a  gray  high  hat  in  his 
hand,  wore  a  gray  frock  coat,  gray  spats.  A  striking 
figure,  albeit  a  little  old-fashioned.  Even  so  it  was  his 
face  that  absorbed  most  of  the  attention;  straight- 
featured  and  bold,  yet  with  a  dwelling  tragedy  in  the 
eyes;  something  that  lurked  there  and  peered  out,  like 
a  strange,  lost  animal  in  the  depths  of  a  dark  room. 

So  much  for  him ;  because,  a  moment  or  so  later,  the 
girl  appeared ;  and  then  there  would  be  no  attention  for 
any  one  else  much  except  for  her. 

"Gad !"  whispered  Hal. 

The  young  architect  that  was  with  him  spake  no  word 
at  all.  He  merely  held  his  breath.  Perhaps  his  heart 
stopped  beating.  That  sort  of  thing  does  happen  when 

5 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

fate  reaches  out  and  touches  some  one  with  her  in 
visible  finger. 

The  gentleman  had  offered  the  girl  his  hand,  was 
assisting  her  down  the  stoop  with  a  real,  old-fashioned 
courtesy. 

The  girl  was  possibly  twenty.  She  had  a  delicate  face. 
Even  so,  it  was  boldly  contoured  also,  just  as  the  man's 
face  was.  She  was  no  weakling.  There  was  a  sup 
pressed  fire  about  her.  But  also  a  demureness.  The  de- 
mureness  was  chiefly  in  her  eyes,  which  were  large  and 
dark  blue.  But  her  coloring  was  so  fair  that  her  eyes 
appeared  really  darker  than  they  were.  So  it  was  with 
her  eyelashes  and  her  eyebrows,  which  were  very  fine. 
She  was  a  golden  blonde.  Her  hair  was  clustered  in  a 
lot  of  short  curls  on  either  side  of  her  face,  as  if  the 
gold  of  them  had  been  beaten  to  a  foam. 

The  most  remarkable  thing  about  her,  though,  was 
her  clothing.  Very  beautiful  clothing  it  was — white  silk, 
old  lace,  ruffles ;  all  this  just  sufficiently  touched  up  with 
a  hint  of  pastel-shades  here  and  there  to  supply  a  sort 
of  opalescent  sheen.  But  the  style! — a  style  that  must 
have  been  out  of  date  at  the  time  the  wearer  herself 
was  born. 

Nothing  grotesque  about  it.  The  toque  was  becom 
ing.  So  was  the  tight  little  bodice  ov^er  her  modest  bosom, 
nd  the  long,  full  skirt.  Of  the  finest  material,  too,  her 
outfit  must  have  cost  a  pretty  sum.  But  it  was  all  very 
touching. 

The  girl  may  have  been  conscious  of  this.  Maybe  this 
accounted  for  something  of  that  suppressed  fire  about 

6 


No.  6  Cinnamon  Street 

hei.  But  she  gave  no  other  sign.  She  showed  plainly 
enough  how  she  loved  and  respected  the  man  in  gray — 
showed  it  in  every  gesture  and  inclination  of  her  graceful 
shape  as  she  descended  the  steps  and  entered  the  waiting 
carriage. 


CHAPTER  II 

GLAMOUR 

AND  this,"  breathed  the  artist,  Hal,  "in  noisy,  up-to- 
date  New  York." 
Still  the  architect  was  silent.     Silence  became 
him,  anyway — a  meditative,  thoughtful  youth,  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  romance  and  poetry  about  him.     He  stirred 
somewhat  as  a  man  might  have  stirred  in  his  sleep.    He 
merely  sighed. 

"A  great  model,  Buck,  for  a  Dolly  Madison,"  Hal 
developed. 

Buck — his  full  name  was  Buckhannon — was  seeing 
other  pictures;  so  one  would  have  said  from  the  ex 
pression  in  his  dark  eyes.  It  was  an  expression  that 
was  both  avid  and  reverent;  the  look  of  a  man  who 
sees  holy  visions,  dimly,  not  to  be  talked  too  much  of. 

The  girl  and  her  escort  by  this  time  had  entered  the 
carriage  as  great  people  should,  without  paying  too  much 
attention  to  the  old  servant  standing  there.  No,  the  girl 
was  seen  to  give  him  a  half  smile,  with  a  short  intake 
of  her  breath,  as  she  settled  back  on  the  plum-colored 
cushions  of  Goodenough's  old  victoria.  The  gentleman 
had  taken  his  place  at  her  side.  Goodenough,  having  held 
his  whip  aloft  while  this  was  under  way,  now  touched 

8 


Glamour 

his  roan  with  the  tip  of  his  lash.  The  butler  faded  up 
the  stoop  and  disappeared. 

"A  gift  from  God!"  Buckhannon  gasped,  speaking 
softly  and  more  as  a  man  would  who  spoke  to  himself. 
"Do  you  remember,"  said  he,  "that  thing  Lafcadio  Hearn 
says  somewhere  about  there  being — something  ghostly  in 
all  great  art  ?" 

Just  back  of  where  they  stood  and  almost  opposite  to 
No.  6  there  was  a  small  drugstore  with  a  soda-fountain. 

"Let's  go  in  and  get  a  drink,"  said  Hal. 

The  customers  had  seated  themselves  at  the  sticky 
marble-counter  near  the  street  door,  where  they  could 
still  command  a  view  of  No.  6.  A  hush  had  fallen.  The 
old  house  stood  on  its  bank  of  the  now  empty  street  as 
one  might  stand  on  the  bank  of  a  mysterious  stream  and 
watch  the  place  where  something  precious  had  disap 
peared.  The  silence  was  unbroken  as  the  druggist  came 
forward.  He  must  have  been  wearing  slippers.  He 
bowed  his  head  a  little  and  himself  looked  across  at  No.  6 
as  if  he  were  expecting  to  see  something  surprising  and 
not  very  respectable  over  there. 

Hal  and  his  friend  ordered  their  drinks. 

The  druggist  served  them  with  an  air  of  knowing  just 
what  chemicals  the  red  stuff  was  made  of  and  what  it 
would  do  to  them.  He  wiped  the  marble  with  a  soiled 
rag.  And  there  he  was  again  letting  his  eyes  stray  to 
the  house  across  the  street. 

"That's  a  fine  old  house,"  said  Hal. 

The  druggist  shook  his  head.     He  wasn't  too  sure. 

9 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

But  he  swallowed  the  words  he  would  have  spoken  as  he 
might  have  swallowed  a  handful  of  pills. 

"Who  are  those  folks  who  live  over  there?"  asked  Hal. 

The  druggist  lingered,  as  if  against  his  will.  He  got 
out  something  inarticulate.  He  made  his  slippered  escape. 
In  the  silence  that  followed  they  could  hear  him  making 
the  small,  mysterious  noises  of  his  craft  back  of  the 
prescription-counter. 

"Did  you  notice  how  he  appeared  to  be  frightened?" 
asked  Hal.  "From  the  way  he  acted  you  would  have 
thought  that  the  old  house  over  there  had  a  curse  on  it." 

Buckhannon  smiled,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Still,  there 
was  a  look  on  his  face  that  also  suggested  some  uncanny 
reflection — something  that  he  had  alluded  to  when  quot 
ing  that  remark  of  Lafcadio  Hearn — that  thing  about 
there  being  something  ghostly  in  all  great  art.  Wasn't 
it  because  there  was  also  something  ghostly  in  life  itself — 
something  of  the  old  fairy  tale,  of  the  knight  or  thc» 
princess  held  prisoner  by  enchantment  ? 

But  Hal  had  rapped  on  the  marble  with  the  edge  of  a 
coin.  At  that  the  druggist  came  slinking  from  his  re 
treat  again,  somewhat  as  an  unwilling  earthworm  might 
resoond  to  the  tap  of  a  robin, 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?"  the  artist  asked. 

"Ten  cents,"  the  druggist  whispered  furtively. 

Having  thus  caught  him  so  that  he  could  not  get  away, 
the  youth  cheerfully  continued  his  quest  for  information. 

"Who'd  you  say  it  was  who  lived  in  the  brick  house 
across  the  street?" 

10 


Glamour 

The  druggist  wriggled  the  end  of  his  nose  and  cleared 
his  throat.  He  made  an  effort. 

"That's  the  old  Tyrone  house,"  he  volunteered. 

And  his  expression  was  such  that  it  led  Hal  to  his  next 
question. 

"Why?    What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

The  druggist  appeared  to  be  uneasy.  He  didn't  want 
to  say.  "Would  you  gentlemen  like  anything  else?"  he 
inquired. 

"Tyrone!"  breathed  Buckhannon,  as  if  the  name  had 
a  particular  charm  for  him. 

"Mr.  Tyrone  and  Miss  Tyrone,"  Hal  developed  pleas 
antly. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  druggist  with  another  tremendous 
effort,  "it  was  his  wife!" 

Buckhannon  gave  a  start. 

"What !"  he  exclaimed. 

"His  wife,"  whispered  the  druggist,  grinning.  "It's 
her,  all  right.  She's  just  showed  up  again." 

"How  do  you  mean — just  showed  up  again?" 

The  druggist  was  frightened,  but  he  had  committed 
himself.  He  had  to  go  on.  He  had  the  air  of  a  man 
who  tells  a  tragic  joke. 

"Everybody,"  he  said,  "thought  she  was  dead." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Hal.  'You  mean  that  she  was  in  the 
hospital  or  something.  She's  been  sick." 

But  he  knew  well  enough  that  that  wasn't  what  the 
druggist  had  meant.  The  druggist  hadn't  said  it  that 
way.  Nor  was  Buckhannon  deceived. 

II 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Explain  yourself,"  said  Buckhannon,  with  sudden 
vehemence. 

"I'm  merely  telling  you  what  they  say,"  the  druggist 
affirmed,  beginning  to  defend  himself.  "Some  mighty 
queer  things  happen  in  a  town  like  this.  .It  may  be  her 
or  it  may  not  be.  It's  none  of  my  business.  They  never 
came  in  here  to  buy  anything  they  hadn't  a  right  to." 

"Why?"  Hal  asked  casually,  as  he  winked  at  Buck 
hannon.  "Were  they  ever  accused  of  poisoning  any  one?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  talking  about  such  things,"  said  the 
druggist.  "It  isn't  professional." 

"Look  here,"  said  Hal.  "You  can  trust  us.  Can't  he, 
Buck?  A  little  while  ago  you  said  that  everybody 
thought  that  this  girl  we  saw  coming  out  of  the  house 
was  dead " 

"I  didn't  say  anything  against  them,"  the  druggist  af 
firmed.  "They're  perfectly  all  right,  so  far  as  I  know. 
It's  a  good  many  years  now  since  we  saw  them  bringing 
the  coffin  out." 

"Whose  coffin !" 

The  druggist  swallowed  another  handful  of  vocal  pills. 
But  there  was  an  insistence  in  the  way  the  others  waited. 

"I've  got  a  full  line  of  cigars,"  said  the  druggist,  will 
ing  to  change  the  subject;  "cigarettes,  pipe-tobacco, 
toilet  articles " 

"Ah,  come  on,"  Buckhannon  spoke  up,  and  he  moved 
away. 

But  Buckhannon  returned  to  Cinnamon  Street — alone, 
this  time — and  was  there  when  the  mysterious  Tyrones 
came  back  from  their  drive. 

12 


Glamour 

So  far  as  the  artist  named  Hal  was  concerned,  the  in 
cident  already  had  probably  begun  its  drift  into  the  limbo 
of  forgotten  things.  New  York  was  full  of  beautiful 
girls  for  him,  and  also  of  persons  who,  like  the  druggist, 
were  slightly  mad. 

But  it  was  different  for  the  architect,  young  Buck- 
hannon.  Something  had  happened  to  him.  He  knew 
this  to  be  the  case.  He  was  pervaded  by  an  unrest.  Life 
had  suddenly  taken  on  a  new  quality  of  wonder  and 
mystery.  How  fascinating  was  the  world  when  there 
was  a  girl  like  that  in  it!  Or  was  she  in  it?  Wasn't  she 
just  some  fair  ghost  he  had  seen?  Was  it  possible  that 
she  was  real? 

But  now,  here  she  was  again — the  Tyrones! — the  girl 
of  mystery  and  the  man  of  mystery  at  her  side. 

They  returned  as  they  had  gone,  in  Goodenough's  old 
victoria;  Goodenough  sagging  a  little  on  the  box,  as  he 
always  did  after  the  exertions  of  a  drive.  But  Good- 
enough  again  straightened  up  somewhat  as  he  brought  his 
caravel  safely  to  port  in  front  of  No.  6. 

Already  the  butler  had  come  running  down  the  steps. 
It  was  clear  that  he  also  had  been  watching  for  this  re 
turn.  The  butler  assisted  Tyrone  and  the  girl  to  leave 
the  vehicle,  while  Goodenough  again  held  his  whip  aloft 
in  imitation  of  the  grand  coachmen  of  other  days.  It 
was  the  butler  who  lingered  behind  to  pay  Goodenough 
his  fare — and  his  tip  as  well,  no  doubt,  for  Goodenough 
touched  his  hat  and  addressed  the  butler  as  "Mr."  Par 
tridge. 

13 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

But  all  this  as  an  afterthought,  a  sort  of  mental  echo, 
so  far  as  Eugene  Buckhannon  was  concerned. 

His  eyes — and  his  heart,  and  his  soul — had  clung  to  the 
girl.  At  the  top  of  the  stoop  she  had  paused,  she  had 
turned.  She  had  looked  at  him. 

Their  eyes  had  met. 


CHAPTER  III 

SET    TO     MUSIC 

A  FLEETING  glance,  and  yet  he  staggered  as  if  he 
had  received  a  blow.  Mentally  he  did.  Physi 
cally  he  was  transfixed.  He  felt  that  he  was  scar 
let.  He  felt  that  he  had  bared  his  soul  to  the  girl.  His 
soul  had  been  adoring  her,  in  secret,  when  it  had  had  no 
right  to  adore  her.  Her  glance,  though  swift,  had  been  so 
calm,  so  penetrating,  so  overwhelming,  she  must  have 
discovered  this. 

Then  Buckhannon  was  beginning  to  get  a  fresh  grip 
on  himself. 

Mr.  Tyrone  hadn't  noticed  him.  Neither  had  Part 
ridge.  The  former  had  gravely  mounted  the  high,  front 
stoop  and  disappeared  within  the  colonial  doorway.  Par 
tridge,  as  before,  had  glided  up  the  steps  like  one  pur 
sued  by  ghosts.  All  this  in  a  nebulous  uncertainty  while 
Buckhannon  was  recovering  from  the  shock.  He  felt  as 
if  the  girl  were  looking  at  him  still.  She  seemed  to 
linger  there — now  nothing  but  a  pair  of  blue  eyes — even 
after  Goodenough  had  turned  his  roan  and  fled  also  like 
one  pursued,  and  the  whole  street  went  empty  again. 

He  did  not  dare  linger  there,  now  that  the  girl  had  no 
ticed  him,  so  he  strolled  away  quite  as  if  nothing  had 

15 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

happened  and  as  if  this  old  house  were  nothing  more  to 
him  than  any  old  house.  But  he  went  with  the  purpose 
of  returning  again  as  soon  as  it  should  be  dark. 

"Tyrone!  Tyrone!"  The  name  tolled  in  his  brain 
like  an  echo  of  slow  bells — "Tyrone !  Tyrone !" — bring 
ing  with  it  the  same  touch  of  melancholy  and  also  some 
thing  of  the  sacredness  so  generally  associated  with  the 
sound  of  slowly  ringing  bells.  This  name  would  forever 
after  be  a  whole  litany  for  him.  So  he  told  himself. 

This  was  to  have  been  his  last  day  in  New  York 
for  some  time  to  come.  On  the  morrow  he  was  to  have 
sailed  for  France,  there  to  resume  his  studies  in  the 
£cole  des  Beaux-Arts.  But  now,  should  he  go  or  should 
he  stay?  He  loved  France,  loved  Paris,  loved  his  school, 
loved  the  noble  and  ancient  profession  that  he  had  chosen 
to  follow — architecture:  the  art  of  temples  and  homes! 
No  wonder  that  Victor  Hugo  had  called  it  the  "king 
art"  But  Lord !  Lord !  he  had  never  known  such  a  thrill 
of  love  as  he  experienced  now,  for  the  girl  he  had  barely 
seen,  and  who  had  barely  looked  at  him. 

He  dined  alone  in  a  little  restaurant  not  very  far  from 
Cinnamon  Street.  The  restaurant  was  fairly  crowded. 
The  waitress  was  plump  and  rosy.  In  spite  of 
the  other  calls  on  her  attention,  the  waitress 
found  time  to  smile  at  this  dark-eyed  youth  and  to 
serve  him  well.  But  even  so,  Buckhannon  dined  in  ghostly 
company.  Mr.  Tyrone  and  the  Golden  Girl  were  his 
guests.  The  plump  serving-wench  disappeared.  Her 
place  was  taken  by  the  spectral  "Mr.  Partridge." 

Darkness  had  fallen  upon  Cinnamon  Street  when  he 

16 


Set  to  Music 

again  returned.  And  the  darkness  was  deeper  there  than 
in  almost  any  other  street.  For  electricity  had  evi 
dently  never  penetrated  to  this  old  road.  It  still  burned 
gas,  and  the  gas  burned  dimly. 

There  was  a  gas-lamp  about  midway  between  No.  6 
and  the  abandoned  chapel,  and  on  that  same  side  of  the 
street.  But  this  served  merely  to  bring  out  the  mourn- 
fulness  of  No.  6,  which  stood  there  like  a  house  deserted. 
The  shutters  were  closed.  It  was  dark.  It  was  a  dwell 
ing-place  of  mystery. 

Grateful  for  the  shadows  which  at  least  would  keep 
him  from  being  observed,  even  while  they  did  keep  alive 
the  doubts  and  misgivings  of  his  heart,  Buckhannon 
walked  slowly  down  the  street.  There  appeared  to  be 
no  one  else  about.  He  saw  a  spectral  cat  slip  silently 
through  the  iron  palings  of  the  churchyard  fence.  Ever 
and  again,  through  the  blinking  zone  of  illumination 
cast  by  the  street-lamp,  a  bat  flickered  blackly. 

So  some  thought  flickered  blackly  in  Buckhannon's 
mind  as  he  gazed  across  at  No.  6. 

He  made  his  way  along  the  street  to  the  abandoned 
chapel,  and  he  seated  himself  there  on  the  steps  of  it. 

All  around,  in  every  direction,  there  sounded  the  muted 
surf  of  the  great  city's  sleepless  traffic — the  thunder  of 
elevated  trains,  the  shrieks  of  tortured  brakes,  the  mourn 
ful  hootings  of  ships  in  the  harbor.  But  here  it  was  as  if 
the  night  were  at  home,  and  the  silence  and  the  sweet 
ness  of  it.  There  was  a  fragrance  from  the  trees  and 
the  grass  in  the  churchyard.  There  was  a  coolness  from 
the  unpaved  earth.  The  stars  shone  down. 

17 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Buckhannon's  mood  at  last  responded  to  all  this.  He 
himself  was  country-bred.  He  had  always  loved  the 
night. 

The  silence  deepened. 

And  then  it  was  as  if  this  silence  had  been  slit,  so 
to  speak,  by  a  silver  blade  of  sound.  What  was  it  ?  The 
sound  had  brought  him  up  from  the  depths  of  a  reverie. 
He  heard  the  sound  again.  It  was  the  note  of  a  flute. 
Some  one  was  playing  a  flute  in  No.  6. 

He  listened  as  if  his  soul  were  at  stake. 

The  flute  note  turned  as  if  into  a  spray  of  lesser  sound 
— the  chord  from  a  harp. 

He  heard  a  voice — her  voice ! 

He  didn't  have  to  be  told  that  the  voice  was  the  voice 
of  the  girl  he  had  seen.  The  voice,  and  the  music,  called 
up  a  vision  of  her,  fair  and  slender,  demure  yet  full 
of  slumbering  fire.  Her  voice  thrilled  him  as  much  as  the 
sight  of  her  had  done.  Again  he  was  breathless.  He 
caught  the  words : 

"I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright." 

There  was  a  gate  near  the  chapel-steps,  and  this  led 
into  the  graveyard.  He  entered  the  gate.  He  drew 
closer  to  No.  6 — as  close  as  he  dared;  and  there  he 
listened  again.  A  warble  of  notes  from  the  flute ;  a  spray 
of  harmony  from  the  harp,  and  once  more  the  hushed 
vibrancy  of  a  magic  voice. 

18 


Set  to  Music 

He  found  a  place  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree.  On  a  root 
of  the  tree  he  huddled  down. 

He  could  hardly  have  told  when  the  music  did  come 
to  an  end.  Even  after  his  coarse  physical  senses  assured 
him  that  there  was  silence  in  No.  6  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  air  about  him  was  still  vibrant  to  a  spirit  orchestra 
tion,  still  shaking  to  the  voice  of  an  angel.  He  scarcely 
looked  about  him,  but  he  was  conscious  of  the  gray 
tombstones — some  upstanding  and  some  recumbent;  and 
he  could  almost  imagine  that  the  spirits  of  dead  ladies 
had  responded  to  those  quickening  harmonies  and  had 
come  forth  to  listen  as  he  was  listening. 

It  was  a  fancy  which  was  to  be  strangely  fortified. 

While  he  had  been  sitting  there,  unconscious  of  every 
thing  but  of  himself  and  the  unseen  music-makers,  a 
shadowy  figure  had  come  ambling  up  the  street  and  now 
stood  just  outside  the  graveyard  fence  almost  within 
arm's  reach  of  him.  There,  still  unnoticed,  the  night- 
walker  had  paused.  Presently  it  spoke,  and  Buckhannon 
was  hearing  a  sepulchral  voice.  It  might  have  been  the 
voice  of  No.  6  itself: 

"And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 
And  the  house-beams  groan, 
And  a  foot  unknown 
Is  surmised  on  the  garret  stairs.  .  .  ." 

By  this  time  Buckhannon  had  sufficiently  recovered 
himself  to  have  recognized  the  source  of  the  voice.  He 
recognized  the  owner  of  it  also.  This  was  the  old  coach- 

19 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

man  who  had  taken  the  Tyrones  that  afternoon  for  their 
drive. 

While  he  was  still  meditating  on  this  discovery  and 
trying  to  catch  further  verses  of  the  old  man's  recital, 
some  one  else  had  drawn  near  and  spoken  to  the  coach 
man. 

"Hello!" 

"Hello  yourself!" 

"And  how's  my  old  friend  Goodenough  this  night?" 

"As  well  as  I  hope  I  see  my  old  friend  Hickcock,  of 
the  armed  constabulary." 

Buckhannon  hadn't  quite  caught  this  last  allusion  and 
he  gave  a  cautious  look.  The  newcomer  was  a  police 
man.  The  policeman  made  a  gaunt  figure — gaunt  and 
slightly  bent.  He  appeared  to  be  as  old  as  Goodenough, 
and  Goodenough  had  appeared  to  be  about  as  old  as 
the  white-haird  butler  of  No.  6.  All  old  men — every 
thing  aged  in  Cinnamon  Street  except  that  haunting  girl. 

The  thought  brought  with  it — to  Buckhannon  it  did — 
some  whiff  of  a  ghostly  recollection  of  the  queer  things 
the  little  mad  druggist  had  said — they  had  thought  that 
she  was  dead — it  had  been  a  long,  long  time  since  they 
had  brought  the  coffin  out 


G 


CHAPTER  IV 

UNOFFICIAL 

OODENOUGH  had  made  a  remark  to  the  ef 
fect  that  he  had  just  learned  a  new  one.  And 
again  he  had  begun  to  recite — 

"  'The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretched  along  the  snow. 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro.' " 

Hickcock,  the  policeman,  here  broke  in  rather  brutally : 

"  'Tis  the  soul  of  old  man  Tyrone  that  ought  to  be 
runnin'  to  and  fro." 

"It's  a  pity,"  said  Goodenough,  "you  don't  write  poetry 
yourself." 

"Why  so?" 

"You've  got  the  imagination." 

"It  ain't  imagination.  It's  the  things  I  know.  IVe 
been  goin'  through  this  street  now  for  seventeen  years 
— keepin'  my  eye  on  things." 

"No  man,"  said  Goodenough,  "could  watch  a  burial 
lot  for  seventeen  years  without  learning  things — aye, 
and  seeing  them,  too — also  hearing  them,  maybe.  You 
know  the  old  verses — favorites  of  mine."  He  intoned: 

21 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"The  four  boards  of  the  coffin  lid 
Heard  all  the  dead  man  did." 

"Hist !"  went  the  policeman,  Hickcock. 

"What  is  it  now  ?"  demanded  Goodenough.  "Are  you 
seeing  another  ghost  in  the  old  house?" 

"There  are  worse  things  than  ghosts  connected  with 
that  old  house,"  Hickcock  affirmed.  "If  I  had  my  way 
about  it,  the  place  would  have  been  raided  long  ago. 
And  did  you  hear  the  music  a  while  back  ?" 

"I  did.     I  think  it  must  have  been  the  young  lady." 

"Mark  what  I  tell  you." 

"Mark  it  I  will,"  said  Goodenough,  with  his  air  of 
vinous  philosophy.  And  he  would  have  shambled  off 
into  another  bit  of  weird  verse : 

f      "The  blue-eyed  vampire,  sated  at  her  feast, 
Smiles  bloodily  against  the  leprous  moon." 

But  Hickcock  checked  him. 

"Mark  what  I  tell  you,"  said  he.  "She  may  be  singin' 
now,  but " 

"But?"  quoth  Goodenough. 

"But,"  said  Hickcock  eerily,  "she  won't  be  singin' 
long." 

This  was  too  much  for  Buckhannon.  He  crept  away 
from  what  had  been  his  unpremeditated  hiding-place. 
His  heart  was  pounding.  The  sinister  import  of  all  that 
he  had  heard  had  itself  become  a  ghost.  He  left  the 
graveyard  by  way  of  the  chapel  steps.  His  first  inten 
tion  had  been  to  leave  Cinnamon  Street  altogether,  but 

22 


Unofficial 

he  saw  that  he  had  been  observed  by  the  two  old  cronies 
of  the  sidewalk  and  that  some  explanation  would  have 
to  be  forthcoming. 

Both  were  staring  at  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  chapel 
gate  and  approached  the  place  where  they  stood. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Buckhannon. 

The  others  acknowledged  his  salutation  in  silence. 
One  would  have  said  that  neither  Goodenough  nor  Hick- 
cock  was  quite  certain  yet  that  Buckhannon  was  not  him 
self  a  ghost  or  a  ghoul.  Buckhannon  saw  that  he  had 
better  begin. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said;  "but  I  just  happened 
to  be  sitting  in  there,  and  I  overheard  what  you  said." 

Hickcock  took  a  better  grip  on  his  night-stick. 

"What  did  you  say  you  was  doin'  in  there?" 

"I  was  just  sitting  in  there,"  said  Buckhannon,  "sort 
of  dreaming,  meditating." 

The  policeman  was  suspicious.  He  still  gripped  his 
night-stick  as  if  half-persuaded  he  might  have  use  for 
it.  But  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  coachman  in  search  of 
advice.  Old  Goodenough  understood.  The  coachman 
had  regarded  Buckhannon  like  a  gentle  ogre.  His  voice 
was  friendly. 

"And  what  else — when  you're  young,"  he  said.  "I  was 
young  myself.  In  there  I  myself  once — sort  of 
dreamed." 

The  policeman,  satisfied  on  that  point,  proceeded  to 
the  next. 

"And  what  did  you  overhear?" 

Buckhannon  told  not  only  what  he  had  overheard; 

23 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

he  told  how  the  druggist  also  had  dropped  his  dark 
hints  about  the  house  and  the  people  in  it. 

Goodenough  was  mellow.  "  'Twould  be  a  dull  place," 
he  said,  "the  world  without  its  liars." 

But  Hickcock  remained  grim.  He  was  the  old  police 
man,  with  the  old  policeman's  adhesiveness  for  facts. 

"There's  no  need  for  liars  here,"  he  declared  "The 
house  has  got  a  bad  name." 

"But  why  has  it  got  a  bad  name  ?"  asked  Buckhannon. 

"If  you'd  been  on  the  force  as  long  as  I  have,"  said 
Hickcock,  "you  wouldn't  have  to  ask.  Would  he, 
Goodenough  ?" 

"The  learned  professions,"  said  Goodenough,  with 
humorous  intent,  "are  his  and  mine.  What  does  any 
professor  know  as  compared  with  a  cabby  or  a  cop?" 

Hickcock  took  umbrage.     He  turned  on  his  friend. 

"At  that,"  he  declared,  "you  said  a  mouthful.  I  got 
me  education  where  me  old  man  got  his — out  in  the 
street,  where  you  learn  damn  quick  or  you  get  it  in 
the  neck."  Softened  somewhat  he  turned  to  Buck 
hannon.  "If  I  could  raid  that  dump" — and  he  indicated 
No.  6 — "I'd  show  yous  fast  enough." 

"Raid  it,"  crowed  Goodenough.  "Go  ahead  and 
raid  it." 

"Yes,  I  won't/'  Hickcock  retorted.  "I'd  as  lief  go 
up  there  and  rap  with  the  old  brass  knocker  as  to  take  a 
rap  at  his  honor,  the  mayor,  with  me  night-stick." 

"Why?"  Buckhannon  persisted. 

"I've  been  on  the  force  for  thirty  years,"  said  Hick- 
cock,  "and  most  of  the  time  right  in  this  here  street. 

24 


Unofficial 

I've  learned  a  thing  or  two.  Why  didn't  they  raid  the 
place  when  they  brought  the  woman  here?" 

"What  woman?" 

"They  brought  her  here  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
She  was  drugged  or  dead.  She  might  have  been  dead 
at  that.  In  any  case  they  kept  her  hid.  Was  it  her,  or 
was  it  the  old  man,  who  was  in  the  black  coffin  they 
brought  from  the  old  place?" 

"That  was  years  later,"  said  Goodenough. 

"Years  later  it  was,"  Hickcock  admitted.  But  he  was 
belligerent.  "And  maybe  you  will  tell  me  why  they  was 
so  secret  about  it." 

"You've  got  me  there,"  said  Goodenough. 

"Why,"  whispered  Hickcock,  as  his  round  eyes  drilled 
Buckhannon,  "unless  there  had  been  foul  play?  They 
brought  that  first  woman  here,  and  she  disappeared." 

"They  all  disappear — when  they're  beautiful,"  Good- 
enough  put  in  with  vinous  wit. 

But  the  policeman,  Hickcock,  boring  Buckhannon  with 
small  round  eyes,  stuck  to  his  narrative : 

"It  was  because  of  this  first  woman  that  young  Tyrone 
and  the  old  Tyrone  had  a  quarrel.  Then  the  young 
Tyrone  went  away.  Listen  to  me  well.  And  when  he 
came  back,  damn  me  if  he  didn't  fetch  another  woman 
with  him — a  strange  woman,  a  French  woman — and  she 
disappeared !  Disappeared  for  twenty  years !" 

"How  do  you  mean,"  asked  Buckhannon ;  "  'disap 
peared  for  twenty  years'?" 

"Like  I  say,"  Hickcock  retorted.  "Twenty  years  ago 

25 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

this  coming  March  she  disappeared  and  now,  unchanged 
— unchanged,  I  tell  you — she's  back  again !" 
"The  same?" 

"The  same — and  not  a  day  older !" 

*  / 

Goodenough,  the  coachman,  mused  aloud: 

"They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 
For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  gasped  Buckhannon. 

"It's  like  I'm  telling  you,"  said  Hickcock,  fatalist. 
"She  disappeared  twenty  years  ago,  and  now  she's  back 
again,  and  not  a  hair  of  her  head  older  by  an  hour. 
Goodenough,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong?" 

"God  knows !"  exclaimed  Goodenough  blandly. 

"Goodenough!"  exclaimed  Hickcock,  nettled,  "where 
is  it  now  you  do  be  takin'  'em  drivin'  every  day  the 
weather  is  fine?" 

"That,"  said  Goodenough,  "is  wherever  they  wish  to 

go." 

"You  see,"  said  Hickcock  to  Buckhannon.  "He  dare 
not  tell:" 

"I  dare  not  tell,"  Goodenough  took  him  up.  "I'd  be 
no  coachman  if  I  did.  New  York'll  be  a  merry  place 
when  the  drivers  and  the  chauffeurs  tell  all  they  know." 


- 


CHAPTER  V 

/ 

VAMPIRE 

BUCKHANNON  was  like  the  Wedding-Guest  in 
the  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  He  also  had 
an  important  engagement  elsewhere.  He  was  to 
have  left  for  Paris,  but  he  couldn't  go.  He  was  for 
tunate  enough  to  find  a  delayed  passenger  who  was 
willing  to  relieve  him  of  his  reservation.  It  wouldn't 
have  mattered  anyway.  He  had  heard  the  beginning  of 
a  strange  tale.  His  Ancient  Mariner  was  No.  6  Cinna 
mon  Street;  and  even  while  No.  6  revealed  so  little 
of  its  mystery,  still  he  felt  that  the  tale  would  be  told. 

To  drop  the  figure,  there  was  a  double  spell  about 
the  place  for  Buckhannon.  In  the  day — the  afternoons 
— it  was  the  girl.  Almost  every  day  he  saw  her — now 
coming  out  for  her  ride  with  the  Man  in  Gray,  now 
walking  among  the  tombstones  of  the  old  graveyard, 
now  seated  in  the  sunshine  of  some  upper  window — 
always  in  her  odd  and  beautiful  old-fashioned  clothes. 
At  night,  it  was  the  spell  of  the  house  she  lived  in,  No. 
6  itself. 

A  week,  a  fortnight,  a  month — these  may  be  big  with 
consequences  for  the  rest  of  New  York :  great  buildings 
torn  down,  new  skyscrapers  sent  aloft;  one  reputation 

27 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

evaporated,  another  crystallized;  fortunes  gained  and 
fortunes  lost.  But  weeks  were  as  nothing  in  Cinnamon 
Street — especially  when  the  dusk  closed  down,  and  all 
sounds  were  muffled,  and  all  the  adjacent  modernities 
were  blotted  out.  It  was  then  that  Cinnamon  Street 
came  into  its  own — as  a  creature  native  to  gas-lamps  and 
shadows,  abandoned  chapels  and  huddled  trees,  to  slink 
ing  cats  and  flickering  bats,  and  old  men  who  talked 
to  each  other  of  ghostly  things. 

At  a  time  like  this  No.  6  itself  emerged  from  the 
comparative  meanness  and  the  dust  and  the  ignominy 
of  its  transformed  neighborhood  into  the  stateliness  that 
had  once  belonged  both  to  it  and  the  street  it  stood  in. 

Goodenough  felt  this,  for  Goodenough  was  a  poet — 
had  much  of  the  weird  poetry  of  the  world  by  heart. 
To  a  lesser  extent,  even  Hickcock  felt  it — this  resurgence 
of  No.  6  from  mere  brick-and-plaster  existence  into 
something  spiritual.  Maybe  that  was  why  Hickcock 
always  kept  his  eye  on  old  No.  6  as  he  talked  about  it 
after  dusk  had  settled  down. 

The  house  looked  larger  then — larger  and  finer.  And 
there  was  always  that  extra  touch  of  something  eery 
added  to  it  by  the  dim  lights  that  came  and  went  back 
of  its  shuttered  windows  and  the  gusts  of  faint  music 
it  exhaled. 

This  was  accentuated  when  there  was  a  bit  of  mist  in 
the  air — just  enough  to  put  rainbows  around  the  old 
gas-lamps,  and  bring  out  the  smell  of  grass  and  trees, 
and  to  set  the  harbor  tugs  to  wailing — wailing,  as  Good- 

28 


Vampire 

enough  could  have  quoted  it,  like  "woman  wailing  for 
her  demon  lover!" 

This  night  it  was  misty — misty  and  also  tepid — as 
Buckhannon  turned  into  the  familiar  street.  It  looked 
more  than  ever  deserted.  Not  even  Goodenough,  the 
cabman,  or  Hickcock,  the  policeman  of  the  beat,  was 
in  sight.  He  made  his  way  along  the  dark  and  misty 
sidewalk  to  a  point  where  the  grounds  of  No.  6  joined 
those  of  the  deserted  chapel,  where  there  was  a  pleasant 
smell  of  vegetation  in  the  moist  cool  air,  and  there  he 
stopped.  He  hankered  for  a  bit  of  music.  He  was  con 
scious  of  a  deeper  yearning. 

Like  that  he  was  standing  there  when  he  saw  a 
woman  approach.  The  woman  was  young.  He  could 
tell  that,  not  so  much  by  her  dimly  seen  contour  as  by 
the  lightness  and  swing  of  her  walk — not  fast,  but  as 
if  there  were  something  feline  about  her.  For  the  rest 
she  appeared  to  be  well  dressed.  Then  a  damp  breath 
of  night  air  coming  to  him  from  her  direction  brought 
him  a  faint  scent  of  musk. 

He  stood  perfectly  still  and  watched  her — too  late, 
now,  to  have  made  his  escape,  even  had  he  wanted  to. 
What  could  he  have  been  doing,  loitering  in  a  place 
like  this  ? 

The  woman  stopped  in  front  of  the  stoop  of  No.  6. 
She  looked  up  at  the  house  as  if  undecided  whether  or 
not  to  go  in.  She  put  a  foot  on  the  lower  step  of  the 
stoop.  She  withdrew  it. 

Buckhannon  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
He  started  off  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of  th'e 

29 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

chapel.  He  didn't  want  to  play  the  spy.  But  he  heard 
a  light,  quick  step  back  of  him.  The  woman  was  fol 
lowing  him.  She  came  up  with  him  just  as  he  was 
passing  one  of  the  old  street-lamps,  and  he  turned 
slightly  to  see  her  as  she  passed.  But  she  didn't  pass. 
She  met  his  look.  He  had  the  impression  of  a  pale  and 
handsome  face,  of  dark  eyes  that  glistened  a  little,  of 
a  large  mouth  with  very  red  lips.  The  lips  were  smiling. 
He  had  seen  faces  like  this,  on  nights  like  this,  both 
over  in  Paris  and  here  in  New  York.  Yet  he  had  never 
been  quite  so  impressed.  There  came  into  his  thought 
some  quotation  from  old  Goodenough's  weird  anthology : 

"Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft  sweet  woman  .  .  ." 

"Good  evening,"  the  strange  woman  said. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Buckhannon.  He  didn't  care 
to  appear  unfriendly,  but  he  was  dignified.  The  smell 
of  musk,  faint  but  disquieting,  surrounded  him  like  an 
emanation  that  was  native  to  her — the  natural  scent 
of  her  smile  and  the  look  in  her  eyes. 

"It's  a  nice  evening,"  she  said. 

"Rather  damp,"  said  Buckhannon,  and  he  was  for  go 
ing  his  way.  But  the  woman  stopped  him.  He  had  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  she  had  been  appraising  him. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  reached  the  conclusion  that 
he  wasn't  dangerous.  She  touched  his  arm.  She  brought 
her  face  closer  to  his.  Her  smile  grew  stronger.  There 
was  a  fascination  about  her  that  Buckhannon  couldn't 

30 


Vampire 

deny.     She  was  disturbing.     All  his  recent  dreams  and 
spiritualities  were  fled. 

"Do  you  live  in  this  street  ?"  she  asked, 

"No." 

"Not  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  know  who  lives  in  that  house?"  she  asked; 
and  she  indicated  No.  6.  "Do  you  know — Nathan 
Tyrone?" 

Buckhannon  wanted  to  say  that  he  did.  He  wanted 
to  ask  the  woman  what  concern  this  was  of  hers.  But 
again  he  shook  his  head.  The  woman  had  spoken  softly, 
cast  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  No.  6  as  if  afraid  that 
she  be  discovered  or  overheard.  No.  6  was  dark  and 
silent.  Only  a  dim  light  from  one  of  the  windows  toward 
the  back  of  the  house  showed  that  it  was  occupied. 

"I'll  have  to  be  going,"  said  Buckhannon. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  woman  with  a  gust  of  en 
treaty.  It  was  hard  to  refuse  her.  She  was  thirty,  per 
haps,  but  she  appeared  younger  and  very  beautiful  in  this 
shadowy  light.  She  drew  Buckhannon  nearer  to  the 
chapel  fence.  "I  only  want  you  to  do  me  a  little  favor," 
she  whispered.  Again  the  smile,  and  there  was  a 
vibrancy  in  her  voice.  "You'll  do  it,  for  me;  won't 
you?" 

"Do  what?" 

"Knock  at  the  door  of  that  house  and  tell  Partridge—1 
he's  the  butler  there,  and  he'll  answer — he  always  does — 
tell  him  that  I'm  here  and  want  to  see  him.  Tell  him  that 
Belle  is  here." 

31 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Why  don't  you  do  this  yourself?"  asked  Buckhannon. 

"I  can't.  I  have  reasons.  It  might  get  me  into 
trouble." 

"But  it  might  get  me  into  trouble,"  said  Buckhannon. 

Her  request  was  preposterous,  but  he  was  wavering. 
Buckhannon  knew  that  he  was  wavering.  The  woman 
was  appealing  to  him  not  so  much  by  word  as  by  some 
subtler,  more  potent  call. 

"It  won't  get  you  into  any  trouble/'  she  said.  "The 
Tyrones  are  going  away " 

"Where?" 

"To  Paris " 

"Paris !" 

" and  I  must  see  the  butler,  Partridge,  before  they 

go."  Her  blandishments  went  finer,  touched  with  wist- 
fulness.  It  was  as  if  back  of  her  smile  there  emerged  a 
trace  of  pain ;  her  glowing  eyes  might  have  had  the  added 
brightness  of  tears  in  them.  "I  have  a  right  to  live  in 
this  house,"  she  whispered ;  "but  they  won't  let  me.  Just 
go  and  knock  at  the  door " 

Buckhannon  had  a  moment's  dizziness.  Belle  had 
lightly  raised  her  hands  to  his  shoulders,  drawn  him 
toward  her.  With  her  eyes  burning  close  to  his  she  had 
kissed  him  on  the  lips. 


CHAPTER  VI 
"HE  DOES  NOT  KNOW" 

IT  was  drunken  old  Goodenough,  the  cabman,  who 
had  saved  the  situation  this  night.  In  the  suffoca 
tion  following  Belle's  action — which  must  have 
been  intended  as  a  sort  of  retaining  fee  or  payment  in 
advance — Buckhannon  heard  Goodenough's  voice.  Good- 
enough,  it  seems,  had  been  resting  on  the  chapel  steps 
and  had  now  resumed  his  course  toward  whatever  port 
it  was  for  which  he  was  steering. 

"Ask  him,"  said  Buckhannon,  a  bit  hastily  and  ashamed 
of  himself.  "He'll  do  it.  Honestly  he  will.  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  I  don't  appreciate " 

But  the  woman  showed  no  ill-will.  She  merely  looked 
in  Goodenough's  direction  hopefully.  She  gave  a  quick 
smile  to  Buckhannon. 

"Silly  boy,"  she  breathed.  "Do  you  come  here  often  ? 
Can't  we  see  each  other  again  ?" 

"I — I'm  off  for  Paris  myself,"  said  Buckhannon.  Not 
untruthfully,  for  there  had  suddenly  swept  over  him  a 
sudden  nostalgia  for  far  places,  for  work,  for  forgetful- 
ness;  as  if  this  dream  of  his  begun  here  in  Cinnamon 
Street  had  been  spoiled  forever.  "Good  night,"  he  said. 

"Good  night,"  said  Belle,  with  her  wistful  smile. 

33 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

When  he  was  well  beyond  No.  6  he  looked  back  and 
he  saw  dimly  the  silhouettes  of  the  woman  and  Good- 
enough  there  by  the  chapel  fence  where  she  had  kissed 
him.  Buckhannon  was  sick,  he  was  excited,  he  was 
weary.  This  time  he  was  going  to  Paris,  and  there  would 
be  no  reprieve.  And  she  was  going  to  Paris — the  Golden 
Girl !  But  what  interest  now  could  he  have  in  that — he 
who  had  permitted  a  strange  woman  to  kiss  him — there 
in  Cinnamon  Street — under  the  other's  windows?  The 
temple  had  been  profaned  ! 

Yet  Buckhannon  returned  to  Cinnamon  Street,  this 
time  to  say  farewell.  It  was  another  night — a  mild  and 
pleasant  night  like  that  first  evening  he  had  ever  passed  in 
Cinnamon  Street;  and  now  as  then  there  was  a  hum 
and  whisper  of  music  from  No.  6.  He  found  Good- 
enough  and  Hickock  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  chapel, 
and  they  greeted  him. 

"So  you're  leavin'  f er  Paris,  France,  to-morrow  ?"  said 
Hickcock. 

"That's  where  the  weird  lady  said  they  were  going," 
Goodenough  put  in. 

"What  lady?"  asked  Buckhannon.  But  he  guessed 
who  was  meant.  Once  more — with  the  eye  of  his  mind — 
he  had  a  poignant  vision  of  that  pale  and  handsome  face 
with  the  dark-glowing  eyes  and  wide  red  mouth.  It  was 
almost  as  if  he  could  smell  musk,  faintly,  and  could  feel 
a  creep  of  added  warmth  in  the  tepid  air.  "What  lady, 
Goodenough,  old  man?" 

Goodenough  did  not  immediately  reply;  directly,  he 
did  not. 

34 


"He  Does  Not  Know" 

"Merciful  God !"  he  muttered.  "To  think  that  I  once 
held  such  in  my  arms !  She  was  like  a  ghost  of  that  other 
• — come  back  to  claim  her  love " 

"You're  always  seein'  ghosts,"  said  Hickcock,  dis 
gusted.  "And  you're  drunker'n  usual.  Where  do  you 
get  it?" 

Goodenough  paid  no  attention  to  this.  He  maundered 
on,  and  Buckhannon  was  interested  even  if  the  policeman 
was  not.  It  appeared  that  Goodenough  had  once  been 
a  student  in  college,  and  had  been  expelled;  and  had 
held  good  positions,  but  never  for  long;  and  that  even 
when  he  had  become  a  driver  for  the  original  Pliny  he 
was  still  a  fine  figure  of  a  man;  only,  wine  and  women, 
women  and  wine 

"You  were  telling  me  about  a  particular  woman," 
Buckhannon  put  in. 

"If  I'd  stuck  to  her,"  said  Goodenough,  disconsolate. 
"But  no,  but  no " 

"This  weird  lady,"  Buckhannon  prompted. 

"Weird,  weird,"  said  Goodenough,  aloud  but  as  if 
communing  with  himself.  "I  was  going  up  the  street 
here  the  other  night,  and  there  she  stood  in  front  of  me. 
'And  will  you  ring  the  bell  for  me?'  she  asked.  'What 
bell?'  I  said.  'Of  No.  6,'  she  answered.  'And  what 
would  you  have  of  No.  6?'  'I  want  to  speak  to  Par 
tridge,  the  butler.'  'A  friend  of  mine/  I  said,  and  I'm 
looking  at  her  hard.  Those  eyes,  will  I  ever  forget? 
'You're  Goodenough,'  she  said.  'You're  Ernest  Good- 
enough!'  And  she  sort  of  laughed.  'And  now  I  know 
you'll  do  what  I  ask,'  she  said;  'and  maybe  some  day-— 

35 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

there,  go  and  ring  the  bell  and  tell  your  friend,  Partridge, 
that  Belle  wants  to  speak  to  him.'  " 

"And  did  you?"  Buckhannon  asked. 

"Not  the  bell,"  said  Hickcock,  the  policeman,  sourly. 
"There  ain't  no  bell." 

"I  told  Partridge,"  said  Goodenough,  out  of  the  depths 
of  his  thought. 

"And  the  old  crook  done  it,"  said  Hickcock,  seizing 
upon  the  narrative.  "He  comes  out  all  trembly  and  talks 
to  her — don't  he,  Goodenough  ? — the  dirty  old  man !"  But 
the  policeman  suddenly  started,  was  peering  up  the  street 
with  his  beady  eyes  and  bony  face  denoting  intense  in 
terest. 

"Don't  call  him  that,"  Goodenough  began;  but  Hick- 
cock  checked  him.  Buckhannon  also  had  seen  the  cause 
of  the  policeman's  interest.  A  portly  old  gentleman  had 
turned  into  Cinnamon  Street  and  was  drawing  near. 

"A  stranger,"  breathed  Hickcock,  "and  going  into 
No.  6!" 

"And  why  not?"  Buckhannon  whispered. 

Hickcock  gave  him  a  glance  that  was  almost  a  scowl. 
"In  all  the  years  I've  been  watchin'  the  place,"  he  said, 
"there's  never  been  a  visitor  except  that  strange  skirt 
Goody  was  just  tellin'  about.  Come  on,  now;  I  think 
we  should  have  a  better  look." 

The  three  of  them  left  the  chapel  steps.  They  crossed 
the  street — with  an  elaborate  air  of  carelessness,  which 
Hickcock  warned  them  was  essential.  They  came  up 
into  the  shadows  of  the  now  darkened  drug-store  and 
stood  looking  across  at  the  house  of  mystery. 

36 


"He  Does  Not  Know" 

One  would  have  said  that  the  old  house  was  looking 
back  at  them.  Its  blinded  windows  were  eyes  that  saw, 
and  its  door  was  an  open  mouth.  The  expression  of 
this  humanized  mask  was  one  of  expectancy  and  stricken 
awe.  So  it  appeared  to  Eugene  Buckhannon. 

But  this  could  scarcely  have  been  the  impression  it 
made  on  the  stranger  they  were  watching.  His  step  was 
remarkably  firm.  Even  in  the  dusk  of  Cinnamon  Street 
it  was  to  be  seen  that  he  carried  himself  with  an  air  of 
well-being,  of  dignity  and  poise.  He  had  given  but  a 
glance  to  the  exterior  of  the  old  mansion.  Then  he  had 
mounted  the  stone  steps  of  the  high  stoop. 

They  heard  the  hollow,  metallic  clack  as  the  visitor  to 
No.  6  raised  the  brass  knocker  of  the  colonial  door  and 
rapped.  He  also  seemed  to  know  that  there  was  no  bell 
on  the  door  of  No.  6.  The  visitor  hadn't  sought  for  one. 

"He  knows  the  place,"  whispered  Hickcock  mistrust 
fully. 

"There  were  visitors  in  the  old  man's  time,"  Good- 
enough  recalled.  "This  might  have  been  one  of  them." 

The  watchers  saw  a  pale  light  shine  through  the  fan 
light  over  the  door.  They  saw  the  door  swing  open  and 
saw  old  Partridge  standing  there  holding  aloft  a  candle 
with  a  fluttering  flame.  It  gave  them  a  flitting  glimpse 
of  the  stranger's  face.  He  was  florid  under  his  white 
hair.  Also  he  was  distinguished. 

"An  old  man,"  brooded  Hickcock.  "And  I  wonder 
what  it  was  that  brought  him,  this  time  of  night.  They'll 
all  bear  watchinV 

37 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Old  men  are  like  old  houses,"  said  Goodenough.  "The 
less  said  about  what  goes  on  inside  of  them  the  better." 

"Hark  now!"  said  Hickcock.    "Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

From  old  No.  6  there  came  a  wraith  of  music — as 
delicate  as  a  breath  of  faint  perfume,  as  soft  as  the  trill 
of  a  sleeping  bird.  But  Hickcock  seemed  to  regard  this 
as  evidence  of  evil.  Not  so,  Goodenough. 

"Old  men — old  houses,"  Goodenough  philosophized; 
"they're  both  haunted.  Watch  close  enough  and  you'll 
see  the  dim  lights  begin  to  dance;  listen  and  you'll  hear 
them  whispering  the  old  love-songs." 

Oddly  enough,  there  would  have  been  an  even  greater 
suggestion  of  mystery  to  one  who  had  heard  almost  the 
first  thing  that  passed  between  the  stranger  and  the 
Tyrone  butler. 

"Good  evening,  Partridge.  You're  looking  uncommon 
ly  fit.  You  and  I  are  getting  on." 

"Ah,"  quavered  the  butler.  "It  is  good  to  see  you, 
Judge  Bancroft,  sir,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so.  It 
is  a  long  time  since  we  have  had  the  honor " 

So  much,  and  then: 

"Does  he  know?" — from  the  judge. 

This  in  a  whisper,  with  an  all  but  imperceptible  nod  to 
indicate  the  back  of  the  house. 

And  then  the  judge  was  hanging,  so  to  speak,  on  what 
the  other  might  say. 

And  the  butler's  answer:  "He  does  not  know." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MASTER 

ELECTRIC  light  is  like  a  camera.  It  is  cruel  and 
crude.  It  reveals  everything.  It  shows  no  prefer 
ence  as  between  the  important  and  the  non-essen 
tial.  It  glares.  Often  it  presents  in  an  ugly  aspect  that 
which  is  not  essentially  ugly.  But  candlelight,  on  thft 
other  hand,  is  the  artist — revealing  only  that  which  ought 
to  be  revealed,  accentuating  that  only  which  is  important 
to  the  picture.  So  it  was  now  as  Partridge  and  Judge 
Bancroft  stood  there  in  the  hall  of  No.  6. 

Partridge  had  placed  the  candle  on  a  console.  Its 
flame  went  up  in  a  quivering  cone.  Its  light  suffused 
the  darkness  with  a  mild  but  sparkling  translucency — 
the  spacious  hall,  only  dimly  defined  by  the  shine  of  dark 
mahogany  furniture  and  of  woodwork  painted  white.  It 
limned  a  striking  group  of  these  two  old  men  standing 
there — so  different  as  to  the  stations  of  them  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  yet  so  equal  in  the  candlelight. 

Partridge  had  taken  the  visitor's  hat,  his  gloves  and 
umbrella.  Partridge  stood  there  slightly  stooped.  There 
was  a  dignity  about  him  though — dressed  in  black,  his 
white  hair  brushed  up  over  his  ears,  his  pale  face  shining 
whitely  as  if  it  had  been  the  face  of  the  great  dead  actor 

39 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

lying  in  state.  But  his  eyes  were  alive.  His  eyes  were 
dark  and  brilliant.  And  in  them,  as  well  as  over  his 
face,  there  was  an  expression  of  something1  that  might 
have  been  there  when,  say,  the  late  Henry  Irving  opened 
his  eyes  on  the  Judgment  Morn. 

As  for  the  judge,  he  was  a  choleric  type.  His  shaven 
face  was  as  pink  as  a  baby's,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  as 
clear.  The  candlelight  brought  out  the  red  tints  of  his 
face.  It  turned  the  native  sparkle  of  his  eyes  into  a  gleam. 
It  gave  added  bulk  to  his  solid  shape.  He  must  have 
been  a  terror  to  any  man  of  evil  conscience  when  he  was 
on  the  bench — or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  any  fresh 
young  lawyer  who  might  have  overstepped  the  bounds. 

Perhaps  the  judge  inspired  even  now  a  certain  terror 
in  Partridge.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  tell.  Few 
old  men  are  ever  terror-stricken.  Perhaps  it's  because 
they  know  that  nothing  that  can  happen  to  them  will 
matter  very  much  anyway.  But  there  was  a  tinge  of  awe 
in  Partridge's  look.  No  one  could  have  questioned  that. 

"This  way,  sir,"  quoth  Partridge. 

And,  picking  up  the  tall  candlestick  and  holding  it 
aloft,  he  lighted  the  visitor  back  through  the  hall  to  the 
compartment  beyond. 

This  was  a  large  room — "a  stately  room"  would  de 
scribe  it  better.  The  single  candle  made  it  appear  almost 
like  the  interior  of  a  church,  for  there  was  a  hint  of 
somber  furniture  and  of  stained  glass  and  even  of  high 
woodwork  which  might  have  been  a  pulpit 

But  with  an  apology  for  the  darkness,  Partridge  set 
about  lighting  other  candles.  There  was  a  very  beautiful 

40 


The  Master 

branched  candlestick  on  a  table  in  the  center  of  the  room 
— old  silver,  with  places  for  half  a  dozen  candles  at  least. 
And  Partridge  lit  all  of  these.  Thus  gradually  the  room 
emerged  from  the  veiling  shadows  somewhat  like  a  beau 
tiful  lady  laying  aside  her  wraps. 

French  oak,  with  a  beautiful  waxed  surface;  mellow 
tones  of  garnet  brocades ;  and  the  thing  that  had  looked 
like  a  pulpit  a  tall  broad  fireplace  with  a  dimly  seen  por 
trait  above  it.  There  were  other  features  that  may  have 
met  the  visitor's  casual  survey — the  gilded  old  harp  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  at  the  side  of  a  music-stand,  a  glazed 
cabinet  with  its  door  carelessly  open,  and  in  this  a  long 
Morocco  case,  also  open,  displaying  a  silver-mounted 
flute. 

"Still  burning  candles,"  said  the  judge. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  with  as  much  of  easy  good 
nature  as  a  well-trained  servant  might  display  in  the 
presence  of  a  visitor.  "The  elder  Mr.  Tyrone  preferred 
them  because  of  his  own  father's  preference  for  them, 
and  Mr.  Nathan  Tyrone  has  never  seen  fit  to  change " 

"I  see,"  droned  the  visitor.    "He  was  expecting  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!"  Partridge  was  lighting  the  last  of  the 
candles.  "I  shall  go  and  announce  you,  sir." 

Judge  Bancroft  snorted. 

"Still  all  the  old  formalities,"  he  said. 

"The  Tyrones  have  always  been  conservative,  sir,"  said 
Partridge.  He  spoke  with  perfect  respect,  yet  somewhat 
as  if  he  were  one  of  the  Tyrones  himself.  The  inflection 
wasn't  lost  on  the  judge.  The  judge  was  in  a  mellow 
mood  in  keeping  with  the  candlelight.  "They  have  always 

41 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

dreaded  change,"  Partridge  had  murmured,  as  he  gave  a 
last  look  about  him  to  assure  himself  that  everything  was 
proper  for  his  master's  presence. 

"They've  dreaded  change,"  said  Judge  Bancroft,  "but 
life's  a  railroad  track,  Partridge.  You've  got  to  hop  or 
you'll  get  run  over." 

"You're  right,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  permittng  himself 
a  discreet  laugh. 

"Still  paying  the  pension  of — the  harlot?" 

Partridge's  laugh  went  out.  "She  had  the  effrontery 
to  come  here  to  the  house  the  other  night." 

"My  God!    She  didn't " 

"I  saw  her  myself.  She  insisted  that  she  needed  a 
special  sum — a  doctor's  fee,  I  believe." 

"And  you  gave  it  to  hejr?" 

"I— I  did,  sir." 

"Blackmail!" 

Partridge  made  a  despairing  gesture. 

"And  he  never  asks  for  an  accounting?"  queried  the 
judge. 

"Mr.  Nathan,  sir?  Oh,  no,  sir!  You  see,  he  is  so 
occupied  with  the  epic  poem  he  is  writing ;  and,  even  so, 
he  never  did  occupy  himself  with  financial  matters.  But 
I  believe  he  did  wish  to  make  various  general  inquiries 
of  you,  sir.  You  won't  tell  him — you  won't  hint " 

The  judge  raised  an  assuring  palm. 

" It  would  kill  him,"  Partridge  whispered.    "And 

now,  sir,  if  you'll  permit  me " 

"Just  how  long  have  you  been  in  the  family,  Par 
tridge?"  the  judge  inquired. 

42 


The  Master 

"Mr.  Nathan's  grandfather  first  employed  me  when 
I  was  a  boy,"  said  Partridge  softly,  as  he  raised  his  face 
the  better  to  reflect.  "We  were  together  with  General 
Grant.  Let's  see !  Yes,  quite  sixty  years." 

"You've  liked  it." 

"It  has  been  my  life,  sir." 

"And  life— is  life." 

"Yes!    But  it  has  had  its  compensations!" 

Again  there  passed  between  the  judge  and  the  butler 
the  look  of  two  old  men  who  don't  have  to  say  all  that 
they  think. 

"I'll  announce  you,  sir."    And  Partridge  was  gone. 

The  judge  had  sunk  into  a  large  square  armchair.  He 
looked  at  the  candles.  The  candles  spread  their  light 
about  them.  There  were  a  number  of  portraits  dimly 
revealed  besides  the  portrait  over  the  mantelpiece.  Most 
of  the  portraits  were  those  of  men — previous  Ty rones, 
any  one  would  have  said  who  had  once  seen  the  face  of 
the  Man  in  Gray  who  lived  here  now.  There  was  a 
grimness  about  all  the  faces,  yet  a  hint  of  poetry  as  well 
— a  suggestion  of  poetry  and  romance. 

There  was  old  Eliphalet  Tyrone,  who  had  fought  his 
frigate  in  the  war  of  1812.  There  was  Elihu,  to  whom 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  had  dedicated  his  first  book  of  poems. 
There  was  the  Daniel  Tyrone  who  had  taken  Partridge 
into  his  service  when  Partridge  was  a  boy,  and  who  had 
been  with  General  Grant  throughout  all  that  last  slaugh 
tering  campaign  against  the  immortal  Lee.  Thus  it  was 
that  the  next  in  line  had  come  to  be  named  Ulysses — 
Ulysses  Tyrone,  the  father  of  Nathan. 

43 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Ulysses  Tyrone  looked  down  at  the  judge  and  the 
judge  looked  up  at  Ulysses.  The  two  of  them  had  been 
friends — as  much  as  Ulysses  would  ever  admit  any  man 
to  his  friendship.  A  recluse  he  had  been,  living  here  in 
the  house  where  his  ancestors  had  lived  before  him,  dying 
at  last  in  the  chamber  where  they  had  died. 

"You  dominating  old  Puritan,"  Judge  Bancroft  mut 
tered  softly  as  he  continued  to  look  up  at  the  portrait 
of  his  former  friend.  But  there  was  no  harshness  back 
of  the  words. 

The  portrait  on  the  wall  looked  back  at  him  without 
change  of  its  grim  expression,  and  so  the  original  of 
it  had  often  enough  looked  back  at  the  judge  in  life. 

Then  the  visitor  heard  Partridge  clear  his  throat,  and 
the  judge  turned  in  his  chair  to  see  Partridge  at  the 
door  holding  back  the  damask  curtain.  Judge  Bancroft 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  doing  reverence  to  any  man,  but 
he  arose  to  his  feet  and  remained  standing  as  Nathan 
Tyrone  came  in, 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  PORTRAIT  BY  LA  TOUR 

HE  made  a  striking  figure,  did  Mr.  Nathan  Tyrone. 
He  would  have  made  a  striking  figure  anywhere 
and  at  any  time — graceful,  erect,  proud.  His 
abundant  hair  was  long  and  wavy,  in  perfect  order  but 
tossed  back  from  his  white  forehead  rather  in  the  style 
of  some  other  century  than  the  present  one. 

His  face  was  as  finely  chiseled  as  a  cameo,  but  it  was 
as  strong  as  the  face  of  a  Greek  statue.  Of  the  por 
traits  on  the  wall  he  most  resembled  that  of  Elihu,  who 
had  been  the  friend  of  Poe. 

Nathan  himself  had  a  face  that  would  have  inspired 
that  melancholy  poet's  love.  Nathan  himself  might  have 
written  "The  Raven,"  or  "Ulalume,"  or  "Annabel  Lee" 
— especially  "Annabel  Lee."  So  one  would  have  said 
even  while  still  uninformed  concerning  his  history. 

In  spite  of  his  pride,  there  was  no  slightest  trace  of 
condescension  as  he  greeted  his  visitor.  Most  of  the 
Tyrones  had  run  to  sternness  and  melancholy,  but  they 
had  all  been  gracious. 

"This  is  indeed  a  pleasure,"  said  this  Tyrone. 

His  voice  was  soft,  well  modulated,  soothing.  His 
whole  presence  was  that.  His  costume  was  inclined  to 

45 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

the  Byronic — a  roll-collar,  a  flowing  tie  of  plum-colored 
silk,  a  velvet  house-jacket  of  a  darker  shade.  He  offered 
his  hand.  His  hand  was  long  and  slender. 

"And  a  pleasure  for  me,"  said  the  judge. 

But  the  judge,  one  would  have  said,  was  not  perfectly 
at  ease.  It  was  that  uneasiness  which  always  exists  be 
tween  men  of  a  different  type  when  they  find  themselves 
alone  together — and  possibly  something  more  than  that. 

Not  that  they  were  altogether  alone — Partridge  was 
there. 

It  would  have  been  a  lesson  in  deportment  to  any 
young  servant  to  have  observed  the  way  that  Partridge 
occupied  himself  about  his  master's  business.  Partridge 
had  silently  produced  a  heavy  chair  from  a  shadowy  cor 
ner,  had  placed  it  with  such  exquisite  precision  as  to 
time  and  position  that  Tyrone  was  enabled  to  seat  him 
self  without  so  much  as  a  glance. 

"The  weather  continues  mild,"  said  Tyrone,  as  he  fell 
into  a  graceful  position.  "I  was  fearful  of  calling  you 
out  in  the  rain." 

Judge  Bancroft  smiled,  but  he  remained  a  trifle  stiff. 

"Many  a  rainy  night  I  used  to  come  here  in  your 
father's  time,"  he  said  heartily,  but  instantly  recognized 
the  fact  that  perhaps  the  allusion  was  not  altogether  a 
happy  one.  "No,"  he  added,  with  a  trace  of  confusion, 
"there  is  a  little  mist,  but  no  rain,  and  the  weather  is 
mild " 

Tyrone  was  instantly  for  putting  his  visitor  at  his  ease 
on  this  score  also. 

"I  remember  well  your  visits  to  my  father,"  he  said 

46 


A  Portrait  by  La  Tour 

affably.  "And  I  remember  how  fond  you  were  of  my 
grandfather's  port — I  believe  it  was  some  that  his  grand 
father  had  grown  on  some  estate  or  other  he  held  for 
a  number  of  years  in  the  Alto  Douro.  Oh,  Partridge !" 

He  hadn't  raised  his  voice.  He  hadn't  turned  to  see 
whether  or  not  the  butler  was  there.  But  there  the  butler 
was. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Partridge  had  replied  softly.  "Immediately, 
sir." 

And  Partridge  was  gone — one  shadow  less  in  the  room. 

"You  wished  to  inquire  concerning  the  present  condi 
tion  of  the  estate,"  said  Judge  Bancroft,  when  the  servant 
was  gone. 

Tyrone  smiled. 

"You  know  that  I  do  not  usually  occupy  myself  with 
such  matters,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  that  you  would 
think  better  of  me  if  I  did."  He  lifted  one  of  his  fine 
white  hands  in  deprecation  as  the  visitor  would  have 
made  a  protest.  "I  should  think  better  of  myself !  But 
in  view  of  my  approaching  visit  to  France " 

He  completed  what  he  had  to  say  by  an  explanatory 
gesture  full  of  grace. 

"I  have  the  figures" — and  Judge  Bancroft  made  a 
move  to  draw  certain  papers  from  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat. 

"Quite  unnecessary,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Tyrone.  "I 
am  quite  incompetent.  I  never  could  understand  figures 
— especially  when  they  have  to  do  with  money.  Just  a 
general  statement  will  be  quite  sufficient." 

"The  estate  has  shrunk  none  since  your  father's  time," 

47 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

said  the  judge,  still  fumbling  with  his  papers.  "Certain 
holdings,  of  course,  have  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh.  These 
concern  chiefly,  however" — he  adjusted  his  glasses,  scrut 
inized  one  of  his  papers.  "Let's  see!  There  was  the 
company  for  refining  whale  oil — the  New  Home  Spin 
ning-Wheel  Factory — passenger-packets  on  the  Erie 

Canal "  The  judge  droned  through  a  number  of 

others.  "But  other  properties  have  appreciated  in  pro 
portion — the  farm  on  East  Twenty-third  Street,  the  ware 
house  in  Coenties  Slip " 

When  the  judge  paused,  however,  he  saw  that  his  client 
had  ceased  to  listen.  Tyrone  had  fallen  into  a  reverie. 
His  head  was  thrown  back.  He  was  gazing  at  the  por 
trait  that  hung  over  the  fireplace.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  a  woman — a  portrait  still  dimly  seen,  for  the  light  was 
unfavorable.  There  was  a  momentary  silence. 

Then  Partridge  came  in  bearing  a  silver  tray.  On 
the  tray  there  was  a  bottle  with  two  glasses.  Silently, 
Partridge  placed  his  tray  on  the  old  table-desk  beside 
which  his  master  sat. 

Partridge  deftly  pulled  the  cork,  decanted  the  dark-red 
wine  into  the  sparkling  crystal. 

"It  was  chiefly  on  my  daughter's  account,"  said  Tyrone, 
coming  out  of  his  reverie. 

As  he  said  this  it  was  almost  as  if  the  red  light  of  the 
old  port  had  cast  a  reflection  to  his  pale  face. 

"Is  that  her  portrait?"  inquired  the  judge  with  refer 
ence  to  the  picture  above  the  fireplace.  He  had  returned 
the  useless  papers  to  his  pocket. 

"That,"  Tyrone  replied,  with  a  flush  of  interest  also 

48 


A  Portrait  by  La  Tawr 

manifest  in  his  voice,  "is  La  Tour's  famous  portrait  of 
Mile,  de  la  Valliere."  He  pronounced  the  French  name 
with  a  caress.  The  caress  lingered  there  as  he  repeated 
the  name  and  amplified  it:  "Mile.  Melissine  de  la  Val 
liere." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  judge.  He  was  not  altogether  un 
informed  in  art  matters.  "La  Tour — eighteenth  century 
— one  of  the  greatest!" 

"The  very  greatest,  I  love  to  consider  him,"  said  Ty 
rone  ;  "the  very  greatest — of  the  greatest  century — of  the 
country  I  have  always  loved  next  to  America.  You  may 
know — of  course,  you  must  have  known — that  it  cost 
quite  a  small  fortune  to  acquire  it." 

"Yes,"  intoned  the  judge,  reminiscent.  "And  if  you 
will  permit  me — of  course,  I  know  that  it  is  very  beauti 
ful " 

Anticipating  his  master's  wishes,  Partridge  betimes  had 
taken  a  candle  from  the  music-cabinet  and  approached  the 
portrait.  To  either  side  of  it  were  triple  brackets  holding 
other  candles.  These  Partridge  lit  with  the  candle  he 
carried.  He  did  this  with  a  certain  reverence,  somewhat 
as  if  he  were  an  officiating  priest  at  the  shrine  of  a  saint. 

Softly,  magically,  the  portrait  revealed  itself — the  face 
of  a  girl  who  had  been  exceedingly  fair.  Her  eyes  were 
darkly  fringed.  Her  eyebrows  were  delicate  and  dark. 
But  her  hair  was  the  color  of  pale-gold — fluffily  light  and 
almost  straight  on  top  and  at  her  white  temples  but  a 
cluster  of  brief  curls  over  her  ears  and  about  her  delicate 
throat. 

The  judge  had  risen  the  better  to  see. 

49 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Ah!"  he  breathed. 

Tyrone  also  had  risen.  He  and  his  visitor  stood  there 
side  by  side.  Back  of  them  stood  the  butler,  Partridge; 
and  even  on  the  butler's  face  there  was  a  look  of  wistful- 
ness  and  constrained  reverence,  odd  in  the  face  of  a  man 
in  his  position. 

"I  always  knew  that  you  were  a  poet — that  you  were 
an  artist,"  said  the  judge. 

Tyrone  was  silent.  His  melancholy  eyes  rested  on  the 
portrait.  He  lifted  himself  from  his  reverie  and  spoke 
with  a  preliminary  sigh : 

"Let  us  raise  our  glasses  to  her  memory!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

OF  MME.  TYRONE 

YOU  never  saw  Mme.  Tyrone,"  said  the  master  of 
the  house,  when  he  and  the  visitor  had  gallantly 
completed  this  little  ceremony.  They  had  drunk 
their  toast  in  silence.  They  still  remained  standing  in 
front  of  the  portrait.  The  portrait  looked  down  at  them 
— a  face  that  was  demure,  yet  filled  with  a  slumbering 
fire. 

"I  never  had  that  honor,"  said  the  judge. 

"When  she  died,"  said  Tyrone,  with  nothing  of  sadness 
about  his  voice  except  possibly  in  the  undertone  of  it, 
"I  was  particularly  distressed  by  the  thought  that  I  had 
no  portrait  of  her.  It  was  strange,  too,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  already  appeared  for  a  season  or  two 
at  the  Paris  Odeon.  But  she  had  never  wanted  to  be 
photographed,  and  she  was  the  despair  of  all  the  artists 
who  had  tried  to  paint  her." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  the  judge,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
portrait. 

"For  a  long  time/'  Tyrone  pursued,  "I  was  inconsol 
able.  It  was  as  if  she  had  vanished  utterly.  She  was 
like  no  other  woman  in  the  world— not  in  the  present 
world.  She  was  a  woman — a  spirit — out  of  the  eight- 
Si 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

eenth  century.  Even  her  clothing — much  of  it — had  been 
inspired  by  the  eighteenth  century."  Tyrone  was  re 
counting  all  this  with  a  certain  gayety,  almost;  but  this 
was  merely  a  froth,  so  to  speak,  to  disguise  the  depths  of 
his  feeling.  "It  was  during  this  period,  immediately  fol 
lowing  her  death,  while  I  was  roaming  about  France 
pretty  much  as  a  mad  man,  that  I  came  upon  this  old 
portrait  by  La  Tour.  It  looked  so  much  like  Mme.  Tyrone 
— let  us  be  seated." 

They  resumed  their  chairs.  There  for  a  time  Judge 
Bancroft  may  have  believed  that  his  host  had  finished  this 
part  of  his  tale.  The  judge  watched  Partridge  go  about 
his  business  of  arranging  the  curtains,  straightening  a 
chair  here  and  there — all  this  unobtrusively,  yet  possibly 
with  the  air  of  one  who  listens  and  has  the  right  to  listen. 
An  observer  would  have  said  that  the  judge,  as  well  as 
Partridge,  was  on  his  guard  against  some  surprise — 
against  any  revelation,  at  any  rate,  of  that  secret  knowl 
edge  he  and  the  butler  shared. 

"So  you  will  forgive  me,"  said  Tyrone,  emerging  from 
one  of  his  reveries,  "for  putting  you  to  the  inconvenience 
of  finding  such  sums  of  money  as  were  necessary  to 
secure  the  picture." 

Partridge  had  turned.  He  and  the  visitor  exchanged  a 
glance. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  judge. 

"It  was  a  spiritual  resemblance,"  said  Tyrone.  "Ah, 
the  women  who  have  been  the  glory  that  is  France ! — the 
charm! — the  intelligence! — the  sympathy! — the  wit! — 
the  fire ! — the  devotion !" 

52 


Of  Mme.  Tyrone 

"'And  the  beauty!"  breathed  the  judge. 

"And  the  beauty,"  Tyrone  echoed.  "All  this  was  in 
carnate  in  La  Tour's  model,  up  there.  Incarnate  again 
in  her  who  became  Mme.  Tyrone!  If  my  father  had 
only  understood!" 

"Your  father  thought " 

"He  thought,"  cried  Tyrone  softly,  "that  because  I  had 
married  a  lady  of  the  theater  I  had  again  let  romance 
get  the  better  of  me.  He  compared  her  to  that  un 
fortunate  I  had  merely  rescued  out  of  a  perhaps  mis 
taken  sense  of  charity.  You  are  familiar  with  that — that 
adventure,  of  course." 

"Your  father  had  told  me — you  will  excuse  my  fashion 
of  putting  it — that  you  had  brought  here  a  woman  of  the 
streets,  that  you  had  concealed  her  here  in  the  house,  to 
the  scandal  of  the  neighborhood." 

Tyrone  laughed  without  mirth. 

"I  know  that  I  have  lived — that  I  am  living  now — in  a 
house  with  a  bad  name,"  he  said.  "Oh,  I  hear  the  whis 
pers  :  'The  house  with  a  bad  name !'  'What  is  the  mys 
tery?'  'The  house  is  haunted!'  'It's  the  house  with  a 
bad  name !'  "  He  got  to  his  feet  and  strode  about  a  bit 
He  paused  at  the  music-cabinet.  He  picked  up  his  flute 
and  breathed  a  note  from  it.  He  let  his  delicate  hands 
brush  the  strings  of  the  harp.  A  chord  or  two  responded. 
He  abruptly  turned.  "I  vowed  I  would  never  explain," 
he  cried.  "But  I  will  explain — now  that  it's  too  late." 

"No  explanation  is  necessary,"  said  the  visitor. 

"Which  would  be  the  one  thing  to  make  me  want  to 
explain,"  said  Tyrone.  "I  dreamed  of  bringing  beauty 

53 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

into  the  world — making  still  more  beautiful  whatever  was 
already  beautiful.  One  night,  while  I  was  still  nothing 
much  more  than  a  boy,  I  found  a  creature — a  girl — a 
woman — huddled  in  the  snow — a  dark  and  lonely  street 
— sinister  neighborhood — Christmas  Eve.  Drugs  and 
starvation,  or  both — she  looked  as  if  she  might  be  suf 
fering  from  both.  She  was  thin  and  white.  But  she 
might  have  been  beautiful.  She  was  still  beautiful,  in  a 
way — with  her  hollow,  flaming  eyes. 

"And  what  touched  me  most  was  that  she  had  tried 
to  make  herself  still  more  beautiful — had  painted  her  lips, 
put  on  a  set  of  tawdry  furs,  pitiful  little  blouse  of  red 
satin ;  not  the  make-up  for  a  shroud !  So  I  brought  her 
home,  smuggled  her  into  the  house,  bull-dozed  Partridge 
into  caring  for  her.  Oh,  we  both  knew  what  my  father 
would  say !  He  wouldn't  believe  in  my  innocence." 

"He  was — a  Tyrone,"  said  the  judge.  "He  was  merely 
sensitive  about  the  good  name  of  his  house." 

It  was  clear  that  by  this  time  both  the  visitor  and  the 
butler  were  satisfied  that  Tyrone  had  no  surprises  in 
store.  Some  such  assurance  passed  between  them  in  an 
other  glance. 

Still  Partridge  lingered  for  a  while.  He  had  an  eye 
for  the  glasses.  He  had  taken  away  the  glasses  that 
had  already  been  used,  had  replaced  them  with  others 
that  sparkled  clean  in  the  candlelight.  And  he  had  lis 
tened,  head  down  and  humbly,  yet  with  a  sorrowful  judg 
ment  on  his  waxen  face,  to  all  that  the  others  had  said. 
But  now,  having  remained  as  long  as  he  decently  could, 

54 


Of  Mme.  Tyrone 

or  having  bethought  himself  of  some  duty  elsewhere,  he 
quietly  withdrew. 

"You  were  speaking  about  some  voyage  you  intended 
to  make,"  Judge  Bancroft  intimated,  willing  to  turn  the 
conversation  into  a  less  emotional  strain.  "You  were 
going  abroad?" 

"To  France,"  said  Tyrone,  resuming  his  chair. 

"For  a  long  time?" 

"Possibly  for  a  year." 

"And  you  were  thinking  about  the  finances  ?" 

Tyrone  tossed  up  his  hands.  "I've  never  given  finances 
a  thought  since — let's  see — since  I  cabled  for  funds  to 
buy  the  portrait  I've  always  left  such  concerns  to 
you " 

"And  Partridge." 

"Yes,  without  disrespect  to  yourself." 

"There  is  no  disrespect  in  associating  me  with  Par 
tridge,"  Judge  Bancroft  affirmed.  "I  consider  it  rather 
an  honor." 

"He  has  been  devoted,"  Tyrone  assented  with  genuine 
feeling.  "He  performed  the  difficult  feat  of  being  loyal 
to  both  my  father  and  myself  during  the  period  of  our 
estrangement.  He  alone  seemed  to  be  capable  of  com 
prehending  all  the  facts — the  facts  of  that  first  romantic 
— charity  of  mine,  and  then  again  the  facts  concerning 
my  marriage  and  my  subsequent  bereavement." 

"Your  double  bereavement,"  said  the  judge. 

"My  double  bereavement,  indeed.  It  was  Partridge 
who  told  me  that  my  father  was  sinking.  It  was  another 
struggle  of  the  Tyrone  pride.  But  I  came  here  to  the 

5S 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

old  house  to  make  my  peace  with  him."  Tyrone  let  his 
eyes  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  portrait  of  his  father 
which  hung  on  the  wall  to  his  right.  Tyrone  himself 
smiled,  but  the  face  of  his  father  looked  back  at  him 
without  compromise — haughty  and  sensitive.  "Unfortu 
nately,  he  was  unable  to  see  us.  He  died.  I  fully  ex 
pected  to  be  disinherited.  It  would  have  been  like  him 
if  he  had  disinherited  me." 

The  judge  used  his  handkerchief.  He  made  some 
remark  about  having  caught  a  slight  cold. 

"But  they  were  absurd,"  said  Tyrone,  "those  rumors 
that  we  had  had  a  death-bed  quarrel,  or  anything  like 
that.  Partridge  knows.  Partridge  was  there.  Partridge 
assured  me  then,  and  has  assured  me  since,  that  my 
father  died  with  but  one  regret — that  he  had  declined  to 
see  the  lady  who  had  consented  to  be  my  wife." 

The  judge  gave  a  slight  lurch. 

"I  was  under  the  impression,"  he  said,  "that  Mme. 
Tyrone  had  left  you  a  daughter." 

"She  did" — and  there  was  a  rekindling  of  fervor  about 
Tyrone  as  he  made  his  declaration.  "It  was  concerning 
her,  chiefly,  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  to-night.  You 
shall  see  her  presently.  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  speak 
of  her  with  rather  more  than  the  usual  feeling  that  fa 
thers  display  in  speaking  about  their  daughters.  But 
first,  should  anything  happen  to  me,  you  will,  of  course, 
see  that  she  is  protected,  that  the  family  estates  pass  on 
to  her  without  annoyance  to  her  in  any  way.  I  am  as 
poor  a  lawyer  as  I  am  a  financier.  And,  I  fancy,  so  is 
she." 

56 


Of  Mme.  Tyrone 

"You  should  be  alive  for  a  good  many  years,"  the 
visitor  said. 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  Tyrone.  "You  know  how  it 
is  when  a  man  suddenly  finds  his  life's  work  complete." 

"You  refer  to  your  epic  poem?" 

"Not  to  the  one  I  have  been  writing,"  Tyrone  replied. 
"I  refer  to  the  greater  work — a  work  that  has  been  like 
the  fulfillment  of  all  those  early  dreams  of  mine — a 
work  like  God's — a  work  of  living  creation." 


CHAPTER  X 
"IN  HER  IMAGE'* 

THERE  for  a  time  it  was  as  if  there  were,  indeed, 
some  work  of  magic  under  discussion  here  in  this 
house  to  which  the  neighbors  ascribed  magic.  Ty 
rone  could  cast  that  magical  atmosphere  about  him — an 
effect  subtly  aided  by  the  candlelight,  by  the  old  furni 
ture,  by  the  portraits  staring  down.  The  portraits  were 
not  so  much  like  painted  pictures  as  they  were  like  ghosts 
— present,  albeit  long  since  dead ;  passive,  albeit  actively 
interested. 

They  seemed  to  say :  "We  had  a  share  in  this." 

It  was  not  black  magic,  though,  such  as  the  neighbors 
would  have  suspected.  White  magic,  according  to  the 
testimony  of  Tyrone — pure  white. 

"When  Mme.  Tyrone  died,"  Tyrone  said,  "I  was  mad 
enough  to  consider  this  child  of  mine  as  the  cause  of  her 
death.  She  died,  you  know,  at  the  time  the  child  was 
born." 

"There  is  a  consolation,"  the  judge  began  slowly. 

"There  is,"  Tyrone  put  in;  "but  I  did  not  know  it.  I 
was  blind.  I  was  dead  to  everything  except  my  loss. 
When  she  was  dead  the  world  was  dead.  There  was 
nothing  left  of  the  world  but  a  shadow  and  a  voice.  The 

58 


"In  Her  Image" 

voice  said :  'She  is  dead/  There  was  no  laughter.  THere 
was  no  music.  Oh,  I  tried  hard  enough  to  get  my  sanity 
back.  I  went  to  the  places  we  had  loved — the  woods  of 
St.  Cloud,  the  banks  of  the  Marne.  It  was  always  the 
same — the  ripples  on  the  river  and  the  breeze  in  the 
poplars,  they  said  the  same  thing :  'She  is  dead !' " 

Tyrone  turned  slightly  in  his  chair  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  La  Tour  portrait.  He  studied  it  while  his  mood 
underwent  a  subtle  change. 

"The  first  gleam  of  hope,  and  the  first  time  that  voice 
lost  something  of  its  force,"  he  said,  "was  when  I  saw 
this.  Until  then  I  had  been  hopeless.  The  portrait  gave 
me  a  vision.  I  was  no  longer  so  blind.  It  somehow  told 
me  that  death  is  not  the  end  and  that  it  cannot  be  the 
end.  Mile,  de  la  Valliere,  the  subject  of  this  portrait, 
had  breathed  her  lovely  last  two  centuries  ago.  But 
there  she  still  was.  There  she  still  is.  What  is  the  loved 
one,  after  all,  but  a  vision  ?  So  I  argued." 

"When  we  grow  old,"  said  the  judge,  "death  itself 
becomes  a  hope  and  a  beautiful  thing.  What  had  become 
of  the  child?" 

"I  had  hardly  known — had  hardly  cared,"  said  Tyrone. 
"I  had  entrusted  her  to  the  care  of  the  nurse  who  had 
been  with  Mme.  Tyrone  at  the  last.  My  only  com 
munication  with  this  woman  since  had  been  to  send  her 
occasional  funds." 

"Partridge  went  over  to  France  at  about  this  time,  I 
believe,"  said  the  judge. 

"He  sought  me  out,"  said  Tyrone.  "I  had  done  all 

59 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

I  could  to  avoid  him.  But  he  found  me,  in  spite  of  my 
self — found  me  in  more  ways  than  one." 

"I  do  not  quite  get  the  allusion." 

"He  found  me  in  the  hotel  on  the  Quai  des  Orfevres, 
where  Mme.  Tyrone  and  I  had  lived  on  our  return  to 
Paris.  It  was  he  who  coaxed  me  to  go  and  see  my 
daughter." 

"And  you  did  so?" 

"No!  I  was  still  obdurate.  But  Partridge  insisted, 
one  day,  that  I  take  the  air  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens. 
It  was  there  that  I  had  first  seen  my  wife — under  the 
chestnut-trees — with  the  gold  sunlight  and  the  blue 
shadows  making  it  a  picture  world,  and  making  every 
thing  that  was  beautiful  twice  as  beautiful  still.  A  day 
like  that!" 

Tyrone  broke  off  in  his  poetic  flight,  brought  the  focus 
of  his  attention  back  to  Judge  Bancroft. 

"I  bore  you,"  said  Tyrone.    "I  forget  myself." 

"You  interest  me  greatly,"  the  judge  rejoined  soberly. 
"And  so  Partridge  showed  you — your  child?" 

"He  managed  it  as  if  it  were  an  accident,"  said  Tyrone. 
"While  I  was  seated  there  under  the  trees  a  woman — 
the  old  nurse — went  by  with  a  child — a  little  girl — a  little 
girl  that  had  pale-gold  hair  and  tiny  dark  eyebrows  and 
eyes  that  were  also  dark,  but  large  and  blue.  It  was 
when  she  turned  to  look  at  me  that  I  saw  her  eyes." 

Tyrone  paused  in  his  recountal.  He  smiled.  But  he 
was  breathing  heavily. 

"And  it  was  she?"  droned  the  judge. 

"Not  only  she — my  living  daughter — but  that  other." 

60 


"In  Her  Image3 


"You  mean- 


"Her  mother!  The  vision  was  there  again.  The 
mother  lived  again  in  the  child.  For  me,  it  was  vertigo 
— it  was  swoon.  I  was  Lazarus  coming  out  of  the  tomb." 

"Yes/'  said  the  judge. 

"I  was  like  that,"  said  Tyrone.  "I  suppose  that  I 
made  an  absurdity  of  myself.  At  least,  it  would  have 
been  absurd  anywhere  else  than  in  Paris.  But  in  Paris 
people  are  bolder  to  be  themselves  and  others  are  less 
prone  to  criticise.  I  went  to  my  knees,  there  in  the 
dust  of  the  walk.  But  no  one  laughed.  No  one  stared — 
not  very  long.  It  was  a  father  who  had  found  his  child. 
Perhaps  they  even  guessed  that  it  was  more  than  that." 

"And  then?" 

"Then — then — I  began  to  live  again.  I  think  that  she 
was  a  little  afraid  of  me,  at  first.  It  would  have  been  a 
wonder  if  she  hadn't  been.  I  couldn't  allow  her  out  of 
my  sight,  day  or  night.  It  was  as  if  I  had  found  her 
mother  again — as  if  her  mother  were  there " 

"I  have  watched  my  own  daughters  grow,"  said  the 
judge. 

"She  grew.  She  had  looked  on  this  portrait,  from  the 
first,  as  the  portrait  of  her  mother.  Even  myself,  I  had 
come  to  regard  it  as  such.  Day  by  day  I  saw  the  child 
develop.  It  was  like  watching  the  growth  of  that  other 
— from  childhood,  with  all  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
her  future  compressed  into  her  little  white  soul — and 
then,  one  day,  I  caught  her  reflection  in  a  mirror.  She 
smiled  at  me.  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts?" 

"Certain  kinds,"  the  judge  confessed. 

61 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"The  old  miracle  of  the  first  Easter  was  a  ghost-story," 
said  Tyrone,  reverently,  yet  joyously.  "This  also  was  a 
resurrection.  There  she  stood !  There  she  stood !  There 
was  only  one  other  thing  to  render  the  illusion — no,  the 
reality! — perfect,  and  I  had  the  means.  Mme.  Tyrone 
had  always  loved  beautiful  clothes.  They  were  still  there, 
laid  away.  When  my  daughter  dressed  herself  in  her 
mother's  clothes — ah,  me!" 

And  Tyrone  put  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"We're  going  to  France  together,"  said  Tyrone ;  "over 
the  same  course  her  mother  and  I  followed.  He  seemed 
to  be  touched  by  a  premonition.  His  breath  failed  him. 
He  whispered:  "But,  God!  God! — should  something 
happen  to  her — should  anything  come  between  us " 

Tyrone  did  not  complete  his  statement.  He  glanced 
toward  the  door,  remained  transfixed.  Partridge  had 
appeared  at  the  door.  Partridge  held  the  damask  cur 
tains  back.  He  announced: 

"Miss  Tyrone!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

IN  spite  of  all  that  had  been  said,  the  judge  seemed 
to  have  been  taken  somewhat  unawares.  He  looked 
at  the  girl  who  entered.  He  gave  a  hasty  glance  at 
the  portrait  above  the  fireplace.  He  was  looking  at  the 
girl  again.  He  was  the  old  lawyer,  the  old  man  of  the 
world.  He  had  come  into  contact  with  many  women, 
some  of  them  beautiful.  Some  of  these  had  drawn  upon 
all  that  they  possessed  of  art  and  instinct — and  on  the 
wardrobes  of  Fifth  Avenue  shops  as  well — to  sway  him. 
But  he  found  himself,  mentally  at  least,  catching  his 
breath.  All  this  while  he  was  making  his  bow. 
"And  this,"  Tyrone  was  saying,  "is  Melissine." 
Her  dress  was  a  pale  pink  velvet  that  had  silver  re 
flections  in  it.  The  simple  bodice  was  cut  round  and  low 
in  front.  The  sleeves  came  barely  to  the  elbow,  there 
flaring  wide.  At  throat  and  elbow  there  appeared  the 
frills  of  what  appeared  to  be  an  undergarment  of  foamy 
cambric,  this  against  the  pearl-like  luster  of  her  skin. 
The  skirt  was  long  and  full  and  yet  it  was  as  obedient 
to  the  movement  and  grace  of  the  wearer  as  the  plumage 
of  a  bird. 

She  had  entered  modestly,  with  a  queer  mingling  of 

63 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

pride  arjd  timidity.  This  had  dissolved  at  once  into  mere 
brightness  and  affection  at  sight  of  her  father.  To  him 
she  had  fluttered,  rather  than  walked,  and  kissed  him 
fondly  on  the  cheek — holding  both  of  his  hands  in  hers 
as  she  did  so,  as  unaffectedly  as  a  child. 

In  all  she  did  there  was  such  a  deft  mixture  of  art  and 
artlessness  that  there  was  no  telling  which  was  which. 

For  a  moment  or  longer  the  judge  was  aware  of  the 
mother-of-pearl  quality  of  her  cheek  and  throat,  of  the 
surf  of  color  and  perfume  that  beat  about  him,  and  of 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  almost  like  a  boy  of  eighteen 
in  this  presence.  Then  Melissine  Tyrone  was  smiling  at 
him — her  pink  lips  parted  over  small  and  dazzling  teeth. 
For  the  first  time  he  perceived  adequately  the  pansy 
quality  of  her  eyes,  the  dark,  fine  strength  of  her  eye 
brows,  and  also  that  one  touch  of  black — a  beauty  spot 
as  ever  was — at  the  upper  curve  of  her  right  cheek.  Then 
her  warm,  delicate  fingers  were  pressing  his  own. 

The  contact — the  whole  contact — had  taken  the  judge 
himself  right  back  a  century  or  two.  He  himself  was  a 
Virginian,  sir,  by  descent.  And  no  gentleman  of  old 
Virginia  was  ever  more  gallant  than  the  judge  was  now. 

He  bowed  low.  He  brought  the  lady's  fingers  to  his 
lips.  It  was  natural.  The  girl  cast  this  sort  of  an  atmos 
phere  about  her — an  atmosphere  of  courts  and  gallantry. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  judge,  "could  your  grandfather 
but  have  lived  to  see  you " 

There  had  been  no  formal  introduction.  The  girl  now 
responded  with  a  slight  curtsy  full  of  grace.  And  the 

64 


judge  saw  that  her  eyes  could  be  tender  as  well  as  hu 
morous  and  wise. 

"He  bequeathed  me  his  friendship,"  she  said.  She 
gave  a  smiling  glance  to  her  father.  She  returned  to 
the  slightly  baffled  but  wholly  pleased  visitor.  "I  have 
so  long  wished  to  tell  you  so— to  thank  you."  Another 
dazzling  smile. 

"Thank  me?" 

"Oh,  for  innumerable  hours." 

The  judge's  mind  was  a  flood  of  comment.  What 
art !  What  artlessness !  And  he  had  considered  himself 
wise  in  the  ways  of  the  world;  very,  very  wise  in  the 
ways  of  women.  To  him  had  come  mothers  to  plead  for 
their  sons.  To  him  had  come  daughters  of  sin  to  plead 
on  their  own  account.  He  had  reared  daughters  of  his 
own. 

"You  mean?"  he  demanded,  refusing  to  believe. 

"Yes !  The  books  you  gave  to  grandfather ;  wonder 
ful  books !" 

"Dear,  dear!"  cried  the  judge.  "Not  my  work  on 
Torts'!" 

"More  particularly,"  she  answered  lightly  and  gravely, 
"your  work  on  'Comparative  Jurisprudence' — although 
there  were  some  things  I  confess  I  didn't  understand  in 
your  chapter" — her  voice  took  on  a  rising  inflection,  and 
was  it  art  or  artlessness? — "your  chapter  on  the  primi 
tive  history  of  marriage." 

"Why,  er " 

"Pray  be  seated,"  she  said. 

Partridge  was  there  with  a  chair,  just  as  he  had  been 

65 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

when  her  father  had  first  seated  himself.  And  Melissine 
also  seated  herself  with  the  same  perfect  ease.  She  was 
a  child.  She  was  a  woman  two  centuries  old.  That  was 
her  portrait  on  the  wall.  She  would  have  been  beautiful 
in  almost  any  light.  She  was  a  vision  in  the  candlelight. 

As  she  turned  her  graceful  back  after  requesting  the 
guest  to  resume  his  chair  the  polished  texture  of  her  skin 
was  finer  than  that  of  the  stuff  she  wore.  On  one  of 
her  delicate  shoulders  also  was  a  tiny  round  spot  that 
showed  almost  black  through  her  transparent  cambric. 
Another  beauty-spot,  surely,  but  whether  real  or  artificial 
the  judge  could  not  have  told.  The  judge  sighed. 

Her  yellow  hair  was  so  fine  it  was  almost  opalescent 
where  the  light  struck  it.  Her  eyes  loomed  shadowy.  In 
repose  her  face  was  touched  with  melancholy — a  hint  of 
reproach.  But  it  was  never  in  repose  when  either  she 
spoke  to  her  guest  or  looked  at  her  father. 

She  looked  at  her  father  now.  She  put  out  a  hand 
impulsively  and  let  it  rest  on  his.  Her  playfulness  re 
asserted  itself. 

"Am  I  too  late,"  she  inquired,  "to  share  in  the  fes 
tivities  ?" 

Tyrone,  his  whole  being  absorbed  in  his  fond  con 
templation  of  her,  caught  the  allusion  to  the  empty 
glasses. 

"We've  already  drunk  to  your  good  health,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  dare  say  you  would  like  to  drink  to  the 
health  of  your  favorite  author." 

Melissine  paused  long  enough  to  give  the  judge  a 
sparkling  look.  She  languidly  gave  her  attention  to  Par- 

66 


Out  of  the  Past 

tridge.  The  butler  had  kept  his  eyes  upon  her.  There 
was  a  passion  of  service  in  the  butler's  face.  It  was 
evident  to  all  who  might  behold  that  to  serve  this  mis 
tress  was  for  him  a  beautiful  and  holy  thing. 

"Partridge,"  said  Melissine,  "I  think  that  you  may 
prepare  me  a  cup  of  camomile." 

"Perfectly,  Miss  Tyrone." 

Judge  Bancroft  was  still  in  the  daze  where  the  girl's 
comment  on  his  law-books  had  left  him.  Into  his  mind, 
like  ships  seen  through  a  golden  mist,  there  floated  the 
stories  he  had  heard  or  read  about  the  women  of  the 
Golden  Age  of  France — Mme.  Roland,  Ninon  de  Lenclos, 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  the  beautiful  and  spiritual  Reca- 
mier,  and — Melissine  herself ! 

"While  we  are  waiting  for  your  camomile,"  Tyrone 
suggested,  "perhaps  you  will  favor  us  with  music." 

"Do !"  begged  the  judge. 

Again  that  sparkling  look  with  which  she  had  favored 
him  before.  With  perfect  obedience  and  self-possession 
she  arose  and  went  over  to  her  harp. 

The  judge  had  gone  his  way — as  haunted  an  old  man 
as  ever  was,  to  borrow  from  the  language  of  Good- 
enough.  This  night  Nathan  Tyrone  had  consulted  him 
for  the  first  time  since  the  elder  Tyrone's  death.  And 
many  an  odd  and  mysterious  state  of  affairs  had  de 
veloped  itself  within  the  judge's  capacious  mind  in  the 
years  he  had  served  his  fellow  men,  but  there  had  never 
been  a  state  of  affairs  like  this. 

He  had  thought  himself  hardened.  It  was  not  so. 

67 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

His  heart  was  as  tender  as  a  boy's.  As  a  boy's  heart 
might  have  quivered — and  as  one  boy's  heart  was  quiver 
ing  now,  no  doubt — so  quivered  his  heart  responsive  to 
the  memory  of  the  girl  who  had  sung  and  played  for 
him,  and  who  had  praised  his  terrible  old  law-books,  and 
who  wore  the  manners  as  well  as  the  clothing  and  spoke 
the  speech  of  another  century. 

And  there  was  Partridge,  the  old  butler,  with  his  whis 
pered  assurance :  "He  does  not  know!" 

No  wonder  the  judge  had  given  Partridge  a  silent 
embrace  in  the  dusky  hall  as  Partridge — the  perfect 
servant  always — passed  him  his  hat,  his  umbrella,  and 
his  gloves. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LOVE   SONG 

THIS  day  Paris  was  as  Tyrone  had  described  it  in 
his  talk  with  Judge  Bancroft — a  city  of  gold  sun 
light  and  blue  shadows.  The  Tyrones  had  been 
there  for  two  weeks.  They  had  taken  a  boat  at  Boston — 
for  Tyrone  had  insisted  on  sailing  in  the  same  ship  that 
had  carried  him  and  his  bride  back  to  France  these 
twenty  years  agone.  He  and  Melissine  had  followed  the 
old  itinerary  that  Tyrone  and  Melissine's  mother  had 
followed  then — loitering  through  Normandie  at  old- 
fashioned  inns;  traveling  by  diligence  to  villages  that 
tourists  never  heard  of ;  coming  at  last  to  Paris  and  there 
putting  up  in  the  little  old  hotel  on  the  Quai  des 
Orfevres. 

A  spirit  honeymoon  all  this  was  for  Nathan  Tyrone. 

This  daughter  of  his  represented  the  dreams  and 
aspirations  of  a  lifetime.  It  was  worth  it,  all  the  tragic 
cost.  Of  her  mother,  Melissine  was  the  perfect  image, 
body,  heart,  and  soul.  It  was  a  reincarnation.  Melissine 
was  dead;  yet  here  was  Melissine  alive.  For  Melissine 
he  had  mourned ;  yet  now  again  he  felt  the  touch  of  her 
hand,  he  saw  her  bosom  rise  and  fall,  he  saw  the  light 
in  her  eyes,  heard  her  voice,  heard  the  frou-frou  of  her 

69 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

unforgetable  garments.  For  Melissine — this  Melissine 
— was  even  now  wearing  the  things  that  had  constituted 
her  mother's  very  elaborate  trousseau  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage. 

It  made  the  French  people  stare,  but  they  stared  with 
a  tenderness,  with  an  admiration ! 

"Let's  go  up  to  the  Luxembourg,"  Tyrone  proposed. 

"Oh,  let's !"  said  Melissine. 

Tyrone  was  confronted  by  some  devil  of  dread  and 
misgiving  which  he  couldn't  quite  see,  but  which  he  was 
trying  to  overcome  by  reason.  He  had  life  and  he  had 
love,  he  asserted  through  the  silent  megaphone  of  his 
thought.  He  was  living  a  love-story  more  tender  and 
spiritual  than  any  man  had  ever  lived  before.  It  was 
as  if  his  original  love-story  had  died  and  gone  to  heaven 
and  that  this  was  the  angel  of  it  come  back  to  him. 
,  "You're  fooling  yourself,"  the  devil  sneered. 

Maybe  it  was  the  autumn  that  cast  such  melancholy 
about  him.  This  was  autumn.  The  chestnut  trees  were 
brown  and  red  except  where  some  of  them  were  putting 
out  a  second  blooming — just  as  Tyrone  himself  was  do 
ing — a  flash  of  spring-time  green  very  fresh  and  beauti 
ful,  but  rather  touching  to  one  who  reflected  on  the  com 
ing  snows. 

The  glamour  which  is  Paris  was  never  stronger.  It 
peopled  the  streets  and  places  with  the  rabble  and  the 
knights  and  the  ladies  of  forgotten  centuries,  with  trou- 
badors  and  gallant  beauties.  Francois  Villon  was  afoot 
again ;  and  Trilby,  and  Mimi  Pinson. 

70 


Love  Song 

They  came  up  into  the  gardens — Tyrone  and  his 
daughter — and  walked  away  under  the  chestnut  trees. 

The  daughter  understood  the  father's  mood.  She 
didn't  speak.  Let  him  sail  the  bark  of  his  dreams  where 
he  would !  She  had  a  shallop  of  her  own. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  her  father  about  that  young 
man  she  had  noticed  in  Cinnamon  Street — the  young 
man  with  the  dark  eyes — he  who  had  looked  at  her  so 
often  with  such  an  unforgetable  expression — but  she  had 
thought  about  him.  She  thought  of  him  now.  She 
thought  of  how  it  was  of  him  she  was  thinking  every 
time  she  sang  the  serenade: 

"I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night  .  .  .** 

It  was  a  song  her  mother  had  sung — so  her  father 
had  told  her — and  she  had  always  loved  it.  She  would 
have  loved  it  anyway. 

Tyrone  was  leaning  by  this  time  on  one  of  the  stone 
balustrades  looking  out  over  the  sunken  gardens.  Melis- 
sine  saw  an  unoccupied  chair  under  a  neighboring  tree. 
She  went  over  to  it  and  sat  down. 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright  .  .  . 

The  words  curiously  persisted  in  her  thought;  so  did 
the  memory  of  the  young  man  she  had  noticed.  She 
remembered  his  eyes  particularly.  They  were  so  dark 
and  glowing.  Although  there  had  been  the  whole  wide 

71 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

street  between  herself  and  the  owner  of  the  eyes  that  first 
time  she  saw  him,  she  remembered  it  now,  she  had  been 
rather  frightened. 

And  now,  here  she  was  feeling  frightened  again.  It 
was  a  rather  delicious  sensation. 

Tyrone  continued  to  stare  out  across  the  sunken 
gardens  absorbed  in  his  broodings.  The  wide  flower 
beds  shimmered  underneath  his  gaze.  Over  there,  at  a 
little  distance,  there  was  a  wide  basin  in  which  children 
were  sailing  their  toy  yachts.  There  was  one  particular 
ly  gorgeous  boat  with  a  bright-red  hull  and  a  snowy  sail. 
There  came  a  gust  of  air  a  little  too  strong,  and  the 
yacht  capsized. 

Lord  of  the  Inscrutable ! 

Men  also  sailed  their  toy  boats — gorgeous  craft  some 
times  fabricated  out  of  brilliant  dreams.  An  extra 
breath  out  of  heaven  and  the  things  capsized!  Tyrone 
continued  to  lean  there,  musing. 

Melissine  had  taken  off  the  small,  limp,  finely  woven 
straw  hat  she  had  worn  this  day.  Both  the  wind  and 
the  light  were  at  work  in  the  cobweb  filaments  of  her 
hair — fluffily  straight  on  top  and  over  her  temples,  gath 
ered  in  so  many  natural  curls  over  the  alabaster  of  her 
neck  and  shoulders.  Over  her  shoulders  was  the  sheerest 
of  opalescent  veils.  No  wonder  the  artists  among  the 
students  turned  and  stared. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  that  gave  her  that  delicious  thrill 
of  vague  disquiet — just  as  if  she  had  been  back  in  Cin 
namon  Street  again  and  that  youth  looking  at  her  so 
absurdly.  She  raised  her  eyes.  She  felt  a  creep  of 

72 


Love  Song 

blood-red  warmth  coming  to  the  surface  from  her  pal 
pitant  heart. 

There  was  the  youth  himself. 

No,  it  couldn't  be  he.  That  would  be  altogether  too 
absurd,  altogether  too  wonderful.  This  as  she  cast  an 
agitated  glance  in  the  direction  of  her  father.  But  her 
father  was  still  leaning  on  the  balustrade,  looking  out 
across  the  flower-beds.  She  wished  he  were  here  at  her 
side.  She  was  grateful  that  he  wasn't.  She  looked  down 
into  her  lap.  It  couldn't — couldn't  possibly — be  the 
youth  she  had  seen  in  Cinnamon  Street. 

Yet  she  was  in  an  agony.  She  would  have  to  look  up 
again.  She  did  so,  soberly — quite  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened — or  as  if  nothing  could  happen. 

It  was  he. 

Their  eyes  had  met. 

He  appeared  to  be  even  more  frightened  than  she  was. 

At  sight  of  Melissine  he  had  just  about  been  able  to 
keep  his  feet.  But  his  soul  had  swooned. 

Now  he  was  recovering  himself  a  little  bit.  There  was 
an  appeal  in  his  eyes.  Ought  he  to  smile?  Ought  he 
to  bow?  Ought  he  to  stroll  away,  thus  showing  her 
what  a  perfect  gentleman  he  was  ?  Then  he  had  dropped 
into  a  chair,  some  twenty  feet  from  Melissine. 

All  this  in  that  fourth  dimension  of  dreams,  where 
seconds  expand  to  hours  and  days  and  lifetimes.  The 
youth  of  the  dark  eyes  over  there  had  been  looking  at 
Melissine  for  hours;  for  hours  she  had  been  looking  at 
him.  Yet  a  butterfly  that  had  lighted  on  a  near-by  flower 
when  the  incident  began  had  not  yet  drunk  its  fill. 

73 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TO  PARADISE 

NOW  there  appeared  another  figure  in  this  cosmic 
drama — a  person  of  consequence  to  subsequent 
developments,  but  carefully  disguised.  To  all 
outward  appearance,  this  was  merely  one  of  those  wom 
en,  sharp-eyed  and  ruddy,  who  go  about  collecting  two 
sous  from  the  chair-users.  She  was  neat,  dressed  in 
homely  black,  even  to  her  black  apron  and  her  black 
straw  hat.  At  her  generous  waist  there  was  an  open 
black  satchel  containing  a  weight  of  jingling  coins. 

"Merci,  mademoiselle!" 

Melissine  looked  up  a  trifle  startled  at  the  apparition 
at  her  side.  The  woman  smiled  at  her.  And  Melissine 
smiled  back,  but  Melissine  was  without  a  cent.  She 
started  to  say  so.  Would  madame  kindly  ask  her  father 
over  there  ? 

But  before  she  could  get  this  out  in  her  pretty,  falter 
ing  French,  there  was  the  woman  on  her  way  again,  and 
there  was  the  young  man  standing  where  the  woman 
had  stood. 

"I  took  the  liberty,"  he  said. 

He  said  this  as  if  he  had  a  halter  about  his 
neck.  There  were  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  fore- 

74 


To  Paradise 

head.    He  was  smiling,  but  there  was  agony  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  murmured  Melissine,  looking  up  at 
him;  "father " 

She  found  the  boy  rather  touching  now.  She  felt 
sorry  for  him.  Also  she  admired  him — greatly.  And 
yet  he  did  look  so  absurdly  miserable  that  she  had  to 
laugh  at  him,  just  a  little.  She  went  instantly  sober 
again. 

He  had  pronounced  her  name. 

"It  is  nothing — Miss  Tyrone!" 

"I — I "  said  Melissine. 

"My  name,"  he  floundered,  "is  Buckhannon." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Buckhannon.    You  were  very  kind." 

"Did  you" — and  Buckhannon  had  the  frenzied  courage 
of  a  man,  not  very  strong  and  not  very  expert,  but  as 
brave  as  can  be,  who  fights  a  mob — "did  you  bring  your 
harp  with  you?" 

"How  ridiculous !"  laughed  Melissine,  while  her  color 
came  and  went  in  ineffable  waves.  "How  did  you  know 
that  I  played  the  harp?" 

"I  heard  you." 

Hitherto  Melissine  had  felt  herself  to  be  the  perfect 
mistress  of  the  situation.  It  was  true  that  Buckhannon 
was  the  first  young  man  she  had  ever  spoken  to.  But 
he  had  been  so  obviously  at  her  mercy.  Now  suddenly 
her  poise  was  gone. 

"I  don't  see — don't  see  why  you  should  have  thought 
it  was  I." 

"I  knew  it  was  when  I  heard  you  sing." 

"Sing?" 

75 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"  7  arise  from  dreams  of  thee '  " 

Perhaps  he  hadn't  intended  to  put  so  much  meaning 
into  his  brief  quotation,  hadn't  forseen  that  their  eyes 
would  meet  at  the  very  moment  that  the  words  were 
tumbling  forth  like  a  message  of  his  own. 

"And  so  you  are  acquainted  with  Cinnamon  Street!" 
said  Melissine,  seeking  a  parry. 

"And  dear  old  Partridge!" 

"You  know  Partridge?" 

"I  love  him.    I  think  he's  great!" 

"Why,  where  did  you  ever  get  acquainted  with  Par 
tridge?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  never  did." 

They  both  laughed,  a  bit  embarrassed.  And  then: 
"Oh,  father!  Will  you  please  come  here?" 

There  had  been  a  rather  perfunctory  introduction  such 
as  might  have  occurred  among  any  travelers  abroad 
cast  together  momentarily  by  some  trifling  incident.  And 
that  was  all — for  the  moment.  Tyrone  had  bowed  and 
amplified  his  daughter's  thanks.  Buckhannon  had  bowed 
and  repeated  that  it  was  nothing.  Melissine  had  smiled 
and  taken  her  father's  arm.  Buckhannon  had  remained 
standing  there.  The  Tyrones  had  moved  away. 

Full  three  days  before  Buckhannon  saw  the  Tyrones 
again — days  full  of  agony,  nights  that  were  sleepless  or 
haunted  with  nightmare.  Yet  this  blackness  shot  through 
with  gleams  of  gold — when  he  told  himself  that  to  love 
a  girl  like  this,  though  she  be  a  Lilith,  or  a  vampire,  or 
a  Lorelei,  would  make  him  a  knight  and  a  troubadour. 

Who  was  she  ? 

76 


To  Paradise 

What  was  she? 

What  was  wrong? 

All  sorts  of  old  foolish  statements  kept  ringing  in  his 
brain,  like  "Where  there's  smoke  there's  fire,"  and  the 
druggist's  "Maybe  it  was  his  wife,"  and  the  policeman's 
"  Tis  the  soul  of  old  man  Tyrone  that  ought  to  be  run- 
nin'  to  and  fro.'  " 

Then,  one  afternoon  Buckhannon  had  dropped  over 
for  his  hundredth  visit  to  Notre  Dame.  First  he  had 
stood  there  in  the  open  square  looking  up  at  its  old 
facade.  He  was  moved  to  speech : 

"Let  little  man  squirm  and  argue  as  he  will  and  let 
him  in  his  heart  say  there  is  no  God ;  or,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  let  him  curse  God  and  die,  if  he  wants  to;  old 
Notre  Dame  understands.  They  have  said  bad  things 
about  you,  Notre  Dame.  You  also  have  been  a  house 
with  a  bad  name.  But  there  you  are,  serene  and  beautiful 
and  everlasting!" 

Thus  having  purified  himself,  so  to  speak,  he  entered 
the  one  of  the  three  doors  that  was  open.  It  was  dark 
inside — or  it  seemed  so,  as  it  always  does  to  one  who 
enters  from  the  outer  daylight.  It  was  darkness  which 
at  first  was  only  slightly  relieved  by  the  twinkle  of 
candles — as  of  stars  too  small  in  a  void  too  vast. 

Then  there  was  a  slant  of  shadowy  light  from  the 
heights  above  him,  this  light  dissolving  into  the  luminous 
blue  dusk.  It  was  a  place  of  receding  distances,  the 
gleams,  the  depths,  and  the  perspectives  of  which  made 
these  distances  seem  measureless. 

He  had  the  familiar  sensation  that  here  was  a  house 
77 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

not  built  with  hands.  He  had  the  feeling  that  this  was 
not  a  building  constructed  of  lead  and  stone  so  much 
as  it  was  a  structure  reared  of  the  solid  stuff  of  prayers 
and  songs.  This  was  the  footstool  of  the  Almighty.  The 
Almighty  was  there — an  Infinite  Presence,  a  Thinker, 
nebulous  but  real  and  very  great. 

Then,  without  any  conscious  change,  or  without  any 
conscious  loss  in  his  feeling  of  reverence,  he  was  aware 
that  he  was  contemplating  another  sort  of  presence.  The 
thought  even  occurred  to  him  in  a  glimpsing  sort  of  way 
that  even  the  Almighty  at  times  has  been  known  to  as 
sume  a  small  and  concrete  form.  Maybe  it  was  some 
thing  like  that  in  the  present  instance.  There,  some  dis 
tance  ahead  of  him,  almost  in  the  exact  center  of  the 
nave,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  girl. 

She  seemed  to  be  a  supplicant.  She  seemed  to  be  at 
prayer.  She  was  kneeling  on  a  prie-Dieu — one  of  those 
cathedral  chairs  with  a  low  seat  and  a  high  back.  She 
was  very  graceful.  She  was  dressed  in  white. 

All  this  was  in  Buckhannon's  first  impression.  Then 
he  found  himself  pervaded  by  a  slow,  a  tingling,  a  stead 
ily  mounting  surge  of  emotion. 

He  had  noticed  that  this  fair  supplicant  also  had  a 
crown  of  fine  gold  hair;  that  she  was  wearing  the  same 
sort  of  clothes  that  Miss  Tyrone  would  have  worn.  Still, 
the  thing  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  He  felt  as  one 
might  feel  who  had  possibly  hoped  for  a  miracle,  but 
hadn't  dared  to  ask  for  it,  and  had  suddenly  found  that 
he  had  been  granted  the  miracle  none  the  less. 

But  he  went  forward  up  the  center  of  the  nave.  There 
78 


To  Paradise 

was  no  one  else  there.  It  was  as  if  he  and  this  other  had 
the  cathedral  to  themselves,  had  the  world  to  themselves, 
had  the  universe  to  themselves,  had  all  time,  all  space. 

There  was  a  vacant  prie-Dieu  at  the  fair  supplicant's 
side.  Tremulous,  Buckhannon  knelt  there.  He  looked 
at  the  girl.  He  had  known  it.  There  had  been  no  doubt. 
It  was  Melissine. 

She  gave  him  a  slightly  startled  glance.  Their  eyes 
met.  He  did  not  smile.  Nor  did  she.  There  was  no 
levity  in  either  of  them.  So  far  as  Buckhannon  was  con 
cerned  he  had  never  felt  so  solemn  in  his  life.  There 
was  that  in  Melissine's  face  to  indicate  that  it  was  the 
same  with  her. 

For  a  moment  she  had  turned  her  face  straight  for 
ward  again,  looking  up.  She  closed  her  eyes.  Her  dark 
eyelashes  were  very  soft  and  fine.  They  rested  on  the 
greater  softness  and  fineness  of  her  skin,  while  this  took 
on  the  faintest  tinge  of  added  color. 

Her  white  throat  swelled  a  little.  And  not  until  then 
was  there  even  a  hint  of  a  smile  on  her  lips.  If  Melis 
sine  could  have  been  translated  into  a  song  just  then,  the 
words  of  it  would  have  been :  "Oh,  joy  divine !" 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  slowly  looked  at 
Buckhannon.  He  had  been  watching  her  with  a  rapt 
and  fearful  attentiveness — his  own  lips  closed  tight,  his 
breast  heaving. 

For  a  measureless  time  now  they  were  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes.  It  was  the  final  clearing  up  of  the 
clouds  and  the  vapors  incident  to  this  new  Day  of  Cre 
ation. 

79 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Buckhannon,  no  longer  fearful  of  anything,  and  still 
just  as  reverent  as  he  had  been,  put  out  his  hand  and 
let  it  rest  on  one  of  Melissine's  hands.  It  was  smooth 
and  soft  and  yet  it  was  strong,  that  hand  of  Melissine's. 
He  could  tell  that,  even  before  she  turned  it  over  so  that 
the  back  of  it  was  resting  on  the  back  of  the  prie-Dieu 
and  her  fingers  were  closing  over  his  own. 

"Eugene,"  she  breathed. 

He  had  told  her  his  first  name. 

"Melissine,"  he  breathed. 

He  had  heard  her  father  call  her  that. 

Their  language,  such  as  it  was,  consisted  of  mere 
breaths  and  wordless  telepathies. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  praying  for?"  asked  Melis 
sine. 

"Yes— no." 

"I  was  praying — that  we  might  find  each  other  again." 

He  bowed  his  head  over  her  hand.  He  held  her  hand 
for  a  long,  long  time  to  his  lips.  And  neither  of  them 
noticed  that  shadowy  figure  of  a  man  who  had  come  up 
and  was  standing  there  just  at  the  side  of  them. 

The  newcomer  made  as  if  to  speak.  He  put  out  a  hand 
as  if  to  touch  the  girl.  He  hesitated.  He  drew  back. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    NEW    QUASIMODO 

THE  other  day  when  Nathan  Tyrone  had  seen  this 
youth  speak  to  his  daughter  in  the  Gardens  of  the 
Luxembourg,  it  hadn't  occurred  to  him  that  any 
thing  of  importance  had  happened.  There  had  been  no 
premonition.  There  had  been  no  misgivings  afterward. 
Apparently  everything  had  been  as  it  had  been  before. 
So  he  had  felt.  So  he  had  believed. 

If  anything,  his  spirit  had  attained  to  even  some  higher 
level  of  happiness.  There  had  been  a  new  tenderness 
about  Melissine,  also  a  new  beauty. 

Tyrone  surveyed  all  this  in  the  first  hasty  glance  of  his 
mind  as  he  stood  there  now.  He  was  like  a  man  who 
had  received  a  bolt  in  his  chest  in  the  course  of  a  prome 
nade  on  a  tranquil  afternoon,  and  who  turns  and  looks 
about  him  over  the  sunlit  landscape,  aware  that  he  has 
received  his  death  wound  and  wondering  whence  it  came. 

What  met  his  mental  vision  was  that  thing  he  had  seen 
in  the  park — the  marble  basin  where  the  children  had 
been  sailing  their  yachts.  He  saw  the  one  particularly 
gorgeous  craft — the  one  with  the  tall  white  sail  and 
crimson  hull — the  one  that  had  been  capsized  by  that 
gentle  breath  of  air.  Such  a  gentle  breath  of  air — tepid, 

81 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

smelling  of  geraniums!  And  he  had  likened  it  to  the 
dream-craft  of  some  older  person. 

Hadn't  the  thing  been  a  sign  for  himself?  Absurd  1 
The  thing  could  not  be.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  had 
almost  touched  Melissine's  shoulder,  but  a  palsy  took 
him  and  he  drew  his  hand  away. 

He  took  a  survey  of  nearer  incidents.  To-day  he 
hadn't  been  feeling  so  well.  Melissine  had  been  all  de 
voted  attention  for  him  just  as  her  mother  would  have 
been — had  made  him  a  pot  of  camomile  after  their  stroll 
along  the  Seine.  He  had  intended  taking  a  nap.  It  was 
he  who  had  suggested  that  she  go  over  to  Notre  Dame. 
She  loved  the  cathedral  as  much  as  he  did.  It  wasn't 
very  far  away.  But  he  had  found  the  loneliness  un 
bearable.  It  was  always  like  that  when  Melissine  was 
away  from  him  for  any  length  of  time. 

She  was  all  he  had.  She  was  all  he  loved.  She  was 
all  that  held  him  to  this  earth. 

But  he  had  his  premonition  now. 

It  was  when  he  started  to  pronounce  her  name  and 
his  voice  failed  him.  He  hadn't  been  able  to  get  out  a 
syllable. 

There  knelt  Melissine.  There  knelt  this  young  man 
named  Buckhannon.  And  the  young  man  had  taken 
Melissine's  hand.  She  had  let  him.  She  had  let  him 
bring  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

Tyrone's  breast  began  to  heave. 

Even  yet  he  was  perhaps  unaware  of  the  magnitude  of 
this  thing  that  had  befallen  him.  But  he  was  torn  by 
some  agony  of  grief  such  as  he  had  believed  he  would 

82 


The  New  Quasimodo 

never  know  again.  There  may  have  been  a  jealousy  in 
this.  There  certainly  was  a  sense  of  deprivation — a  feel 
ing  that  he  was  no  longer  essential  to  the  life  and  the 
movement  of  the  world. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Melissine  had  failed  to 
respond  to  his  presence.  She  had  always  been  very  sensi 
tive  in  this  respect.  She  had  always  seemed  to  know. 
If  he  came  into  a  room  where  she  was,  her  eyes  had  been 
on  the  door.  Had  she  been  reading  a  book,  his  approach 
had  always  been  more  interesting  than  the  story. 

A  slow  rage  came  into  Tyrone's  heart.  It  beat  there 
like  the  waves  on  the  shore  of  a  channel  after  a  large 
ship  has  gone  by.  Something  had  passed  by  in  the  channel 
of  his  heart.  Something  was  leaving  him — leaving  him 
forever. 

The  music  of  the  organ  penetrated  his  consciousness. 

He  had  been  a  Latinist  in  his  day.  He  caught  the 
words  of  a  chant:  "Miserere  vnei,  Domine!"  "Have 
mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord !" 

All  the  pride  and  the  strength  of  the  long  line  of  the 
Tyrones  was  in  him,  but  his  heart  responded  to  that  old 
cry.  He  whispered  it  to  himself.  And  he  who  had 
been  stricken  to  the  heart  because  Melissine  had  not 
turned  to  look  at  him  was  now  afraid  that  she  would. 

He  drew  back  a  step.  He  stood  there  dazed. 

f'Non  est  in  morte."  "For  in  death  there  is  no  re 
membrance  of  Thee." 

Tyrone  turned.  He  faltered.  He  did  not  see  very 
clearly.  But  he  wanted  to  get  away.  He  wanted  to 

83 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

think.  He  wanted  to  find  out  the  mystery  of  this  new 
thing  that  had  befallen  him. 

There  came  into  his  thought  smoky  memories  of  Vic 
tor  Hugo's  story  of  Notre  Dame — the  vaporous  presence 
of  Quasimodo,  the  hunchback,  who  had  loved  the  Es- 
meralda;  and  the  memory  became  a  parody  of  himself 
and  Melissine.  He  was  the  hunchback.  He  was  old 
and  deformed  and  despised  of  the  world,  and  he  had 
loved  this  creature  of  another  order  of  creation. 

The  cathedral  was  a  gallery  of  whispers — Latin  most 
ly,  sometimes  murmured,  sometimes  intoned — but  each 
whisper  was  a  message  for  him  out  of  the  crystallized 
experience  of  a  suffering  world:  "And  being  in  agony 
He  prayed  more  earnestly."  Tyrone  pursued  the  quota 
tion  through  his  groping  mind :  "And  His  sweat  was  as 
it  were  great  drops  of  blood." 

While  all  this  was  going  on  there  had  drawn  up  in 
front  of  Notre  Dame  a  shabby  little  open  hearse  followed 
by  a  dismal  little  procession  of  a  few  poor  people  dressed 
in  black.  The  coffin  was  nothing  but  a  pine  box  covered 
by  a  black  cloth  hired  for  the  occasion.  They  were 
paying  the  last  honors  to  some  one  who  must  have  been 
the  poorest  of  the  poor. 

Yet,  nevertheless,  they  carried  him  into  this  temple 
which  had  witnessed  the  funerals  of  cardinals  and  kings. 
They  bore  him  to  one  of  the  chapels  near  the  great  altar. 
For  him  the  organ  rolled,  the  Psalmist  of  old  Israel  was 
heard  again:  "I  will  sing  of  the  mercies'  of  the  Lord 
forever" 

So  the  dead  man  may  have  been  singing  in  his  sleep. 

84 


The  New  Quasimodo 

And  Nathan  Tyrone — not  physically  stumbling,  pre 
cisely,  yet  stumbling  all  the  same — came  to  a  faltering 
stop  at  the  chapel  where  the  funeral  was  in  progress. 
That  was  himself  lying  there.  He  put  out  a  hand  and 
touched  a  pillar  that  had  been  polished  by  many  another 
hand  that  had  groped  in  pain.  He  slid  to  his  knees. 

He  had  no  more  control  over  himself — so  he  felt — 
than  if  he  himself  had  been  lying  there,  the  silent  hero 
of  all  this  ancient  pomp.  Internally  he  was  sobbing. 
Outwardly  he  was  calm.  Gradually  he  was  the  center  of 
a  small  silence.  It  was  as  if  this  silence  emanated  from 
himself — from  his  hushed  heart  outward  into  space — a 
stillness  whence  anything  might  emerge.  This  stillness, 
this  hush,  was  penetrated  through  by  a  slow,  low-pitched 
throb  that  was  lingering  and  tonal,  but  was  scarcely 
sound. 

Again  there  was  the  hush.  Again  that  tonal  shake 
in  the  stillness.  It  was  as  if  the  cathedral  itself  were 
sobbing  internally  with  him  and  for  him. 

Then  he  recognized  the  sound.  They  were  tolling  the 
bell  for  the  dead — one  of  the  great  bells  in  the  high 
square  tower.  The  tower  was  gray  as  he  was  gray,  and 
this  was  the  voice  in  it.  So  it  had  tolled  when  his  bride 
was  dead.  So  had  it  tolled  generation  after  generation. 
And  he  had  thought  to  conquer  death !  He  in  his  feeble 
ness  had  thought  to  cheat  death  by  making  a  counterfeit 
of  life  and  calling  it  life  itself ! 

He  abased  himself.  Then  he  was  forgetting  himself 
altogether.  A  voice  so  clear  and  sweet  it  might  have  been 
Melissine's  own  had  begun  to  sing  "O  Blessed  Light !" 

85 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

And  a  light  was  struggling  with  the  darkness  in  Ty 
rone's  inner  self. 

"Lord !  Lord !"  he  cried  in  silence.  "May  she  be 
happy!  May  this  new  love — this  only  love  that  she  has 
ever  known — be  a  holy  light  for  her !" 

Tyrone  yearned  more  deeply  still  as  he  thought  of  the 
youth  he  had  seen  at  his  daughter's  side.  He  said : 

"Him  also  bless  that  he  be  worthy!" 

Buckhannon  and  Melissine  had  also  become  aware  that 
there  was  music  about  them.  It  was  as  if  fiat  were  fol 
lowing  fiat  in  some  new  order  of  creation: 

"Let  there  be  light!" 

"Let  there  be  love!" 

"Let  there  be  song!" 

"Let  there  be  incense!" 

Out  of  the  void  all  these  things  had  come. 

This  wasn't  the  Garden  of  Eden  they  were  in.  This 
was  Paradise  itself. 

They  made  a  round  of  the  church.  Tyrone  saw  them 
pass.  He  was  still  kneeling  at  the  side  of  the  pillar. 
They  hadn't  noticed  him. 

It  was  sunset  by  the  time  that  Buckhannon  and  Me 
lissine  came  out  into  the  square — the  ancient  Parvis 
which  must  have  been  saturated  deep  with  blood  and 
tears.  But  the  young  people  could  see  nothing  but 
beauty.  The  western  sky  lay  ahead  of  them.  It  was 
flaming  with  melted  gold.  The  gold  vapor  out  of  that 
great  crucible  filled  the  air.  It  overflowed  into  the  Seine. 
It  coated  the  very  asphalt,  so  that  it  was  not  asphalt 

86 


The  New  Quasimodo 

over  which  they  walked  but  a  cloth  of  gold  spread  there 
in  honor  of  this  day. 

Melissine  raised  her  eyes  to  Buckhannon's  with  a 
modesty  that  was  all  the  greater  in  that  she  was  so  glad. 

He  himself  was  exalted. 

The  great  bell  in  the  cathedral  tower  was  still  tolling, 
but  it  tolled  in  vain.  There  was  no  more  mourning  in 
the  world. 

They  followed  the  Seine.  They  came  to  the  door 
of  that  obscure  hotel  on  the  Quai  des  Orfevres.  The 
spirits  of  dead  goldsmiths  had  plenty  of  raw  material  to 
work  with  this  night.  Nevertheless  it  would  have  seemed 
strange  to  persons  less  possessed  that  a  man  of  Tyrone's 
standing  in  the  world  should  have  come  with  his  daugh 
ter  to  seek  lodgment  in  a  place  like  this.  It  all  seemed 
natural  and  right  to  Buckhannon,  though.  Any  other  girl 
than  Melissine  might  have  apologized,  might  have  ex 
plained.  Not  she. 

The  only  thing  that  occurred  to  Buckhannon  was  that 
Fate  with  a  continuance  of  her  matchless  generosity  had 
now  revealed  to  him  Melissine's  address.  Hereafter 
there  would  be  no  more  heart-breaking  vigils  on  the 
Pont  Neuf.  The  only  thing  that  occurred  to  Melissine 
was  that  now  had  come  the  moment  for  adieu. 

The  hotel  was  one  of  those  with  its  first  floor  given 
over  to  a  shop,  the  office  of  the  hotel  being  one  flight  up. 
The  hallway  was  deep  and  narrow.  It  was  sheltered 
from  the  vulgar  scrutiny  of  the  street  by  a  curtained 
doorway.  Through  the  doorway  Buckhannon  followed 
Melissine. 

87 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

And  there  they  paused,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Good-by,"  she  whispered. 

Her  eyes  were  sober,  but  there  was  a  lingering  sug 
gestion  of  the  flaming  sunset  in  both  her  eyes  and  her 
face. 

"Good-by,"  he  breathed. 

She  stood  perfectly  submissive  like  a  little  girl — and 
the  world  stood  still — as  he  leaned  forward,  sacredly, 
and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  STRANGE  WOMAN 

SOMETHING  of  all  this— of  the  joy  of  life,  and 
of  the  hope  that  springs  eternal,  and  of  the  glory 
everlasting — was  reflected  in  No.  6  Cinnamon 
Street. 

The  autumn  deepened.  The  trees  in  the  chapel  yard 
next  door  shed  their  leaves — just  as  the  trees  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens  shed  theirs.  The  first  cold  winds 
and  drizzles  were  succeeded  both  in  Paris  and  New  York 
by  the  melancholy  glow  of  an  Indian  summer.  Winter 
came.  But  the  love  story  that  made  Paris  indifferent  to 
the  seasons  also  had  its  counterpart  in  old  No.  6. 

Since  the  Tyrones  went  away  Mr.  Partridge  had  con 
tinued  to  live  there  alone — as  much  as  any  old  man  is 
ever  alone.  And  the  butler  was  rather  the  type  to  find 
society  in  ghosts  than  even  most  old  men  are  so  inclined. 

He  had  the  family  portraits  to  keep  him  company. 
Keep  him  company  they  did.  They  had  their  eyes  upon 
him  as  he  pottered  about  the  darkened  house  at  his  vari 
ous  occupations.  He  had  plenty  to  do.  He  was  keeping 
the  house  in  perfect  order. 

And  Melissine  was  there.  First  of  all,  she  smiled  at 
him  every  time  he  came  into  the  music-room — from  her 

89 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

balcony  over  the  fireplace,  demure  and  sympathetic,  in 
fused  with  a  latent  fire.  Often  at  night  old  Partridge 
would  light  the  candles  that  illuminated  La  Tour's  por 
trait  and  light  no  others.  Then  Partridge  would  bring 
down  from  up-stairs  a  flute  of  his  own — a  flute  he  had 
learned  to  play  in  the  days  of  his  youth  in  emulation  of 
his  earlier  master.  And  Partridge  would  play  tune 
after  tune  to  the  great  delight  of  the  lady  hanging  on  the 
wall:  "How  Can  I  Leave  Thee?"  "Nancy  Lee,"  "Old 
Black  Joe,"  "Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold,"  "Drink 
to  Me  Only  with  Thine  Eyes." 

And  after  this  concert  for  two  he  would  elaborately 
blow  his  nose  and  touch  his  eyes  and  do  a  little  rever 
ence  to  the  dear  dead  Mile,  de  la  Valliere  of  the  eight 
eenth  century.  Then  one  by  one  he  would  extinguish 
the  tapers  and  retire  for  the  night. 

A  man  of  fine  sentiment — of  very  fine  sentiment.  AJ 
young  tree  is  beautiful,  but  an  old  tree  may  be  more 
beautiful  still. 

But  most  of  all  was  Melissine  present  in  spirit  when 
Partridge  consulted  a  certain  calendar  she  had  given 
him — "to  remember  me  by" — just  before  her  going  away. 
It  was  called  a  "Scripture  Text  Calendar,"  with 
"Thoughts  for  Daily  Meditation."  He  had  the  calendar 
hanging  on  the  wall  of  his  small  bedroom  at  the  top  of 
the  house. 

"Let's  see !    This  is  the  twenty-sixth !" 

And  he  would  adjust  his  glasses  and  turn  his  head 
at  the  proper  angle  for  reading,  all  this  with  a  pleasur- 

90 


The  Strange  Woman 

able  quaver  of  anticipation.  And  he  would  find  some 
thing  like  this : 

"Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you;  seek,  and  ye  shall 
find;  knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened  unto  you." 

This  always  did  good  to  Partridge. 

He  had  a  way  of  saying  to  himself:  "Old  men  need 
such  food  as  that.  It  is  strengthening." 

And  he  would  meditate  the  meaning  of  the  text  all 
day,  and  continue  to  draw  nourishment  from  it,  ever 
with  an  underglow  of  gratitude  for  Melissine.  He 
would  often  say  to  himself:  "It  is  good  to  have  young 
people  in  the  world." 

Every  time  he  thought  of  Melissine  it  was  as  if  he 
heard  a  transcript — with  words  and  music — of  that  old 
hymn  that  had  brought  dawn  out  of  darkness  to  Nathan 
Tyrone  as  he  knelt  there  in  Notre  Dame : 

"O  lux  Beata—O  Blessed  Light!" 

He  clung  to  this  light  because  he  knew  as  well  as  any 
one  could  have  known  that  there  were  days  of  darkness 
ahead  when  some  such  light  would  be  necessary  else  the 
whole  world  should  go  down  in  gloom.  Old  men  know 
such  things  better  than  any  one  else — old  men  and  old 
women ;  and  Partridge  was  something  of  both,  he  had 
seen  so  much,  reflected  so  much.  Moreover,  he  had  all 
the  delicacy  of  a  woman,  both  inside  and  out,  as  he 
thought  and  thought  and  went  about  his  housework. 

The  house  continued  to  be  merely  the  house  with  a 
bad  name,  though,  for  those  who  looked  at  it  from  the 
outside.  It  was  a  ghostly  old  place  in  the  haunted  In- 

91 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

dian  summer  when  the  dead  leaves  were  gusting  about 
the  tombstones  next  door.  There  were  times  when  the 
trees  seemed  to  talk  to  each  other — first  one  of  them 
sending  down  a  drift  of  leaves,  then  another  one 
sending  down  a  similar  drift  as  if  in  answer.  And  it 
was  always  very  silent  in  Cinnamon  Street  when  these 
interchanges  took  place. 

Old  Goodenough  continued  to  come  and  go. 

Hickcock  found  Goodenough  staring  through  the 
pickets  of  the  chapel  yard  one  night. 

"And  why  do  you  stare  like  that,  Goodenough?"  the 
policeman  inquired. 

Goodenough  turned  and  contemplated  his  friend  for 
a  long  time  and  made  no  answer  except  for  the  answer 
that  might  have  been  read  in  the  haggard  gloom  of  his 
vinous  old  face. 

"Were  you  ever  in  love?"  inquired  Goodenough  in 
turn.  "I  ask  you,  Hickcock,  did  you  ever  know  the  love 
of  woman?" 

Said  Hickcock:  "Me  and  my  old  woman  have  been 
married  now  for  forty  years." 

"Answer  my  question,"  said  Goodenough. 

"I  did." 

"Tut!  Tut!"  said  Goodenough.  "Love  is  a  hunger. 
Men  don't  love  what  they've  got  but  what  they've  not." 

"You  dirty  old  rascal!"  said  Hickcock  playfully. 
"Well,  neither  of  us  is  as  young  as  we  used  to  be."  He 
had  a  second  thought.  "At  that,  though,"  he  said, 
"there's  many  a  dame  who  would  fall  for  me  uniform. 
Ask  any  cop.  What  was  you  startin'  out  to  say?" 

92 


The  Strange  Woman 

"Once  I  was  handsome,"  Goodenough  affirmed  with 
remorse.  "This  nose  wasn't  always  swelled  up  and 
blue.  Once  I  had  all  my  teeth.  You  wouldn't  believe 
it,  to  look  at  this  cheek — all  wrinkled  and  stubbly  gray — 
that  a  woman  should  have  touched  it  with  the  fingers 
of  love." 

"Sure  I  would,"  said  Hickcock.  "I've  seen  many  an 
old  rummy — and  him  not  in  uniform,  neither — cut  out 
a  good  one." 

"And  now  she  is  dead,"  Goodenough  pursued,  without 
heeding  the  interruption;  "and  the  best  part  of  me  is 
dead — as  with  all  old  men — who  die  like  old  trees, 
branch  by  branch,  hope  by  hope." 

"What  happened  to  her?"  Hickcock  demanded.  His 
thoughts  always  lagged  behind  when  Goodenough  talked. 

"She  went  to  the  dogs,"  said  Goodenough,  "and  I 
helped  to  send  her  there." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"Full  thirty  years  ago."  Goodenough  looked  at  his 
friend.  His  next  statement  came  like  a  quotation  from 
one  of  those  poems  he  loved.  "She  used  to  walk  in 
the  graveyard  here,  and  we  were  young  together." 

Hickcock  turned,  cautiously,  and  looked  toward  No. 
6.  There  was  a  dim  light  in  one  of  the  upper  windows. 
Then  Hickcock  saw  the  black  shadow  of  a  woman's 
shape  slant  across  the  street  toward  No.  6  from  the 
direction  of  the  drug-store. 

"Look-it !"  he  cried.  "There's  that  queer  Jane  comin' 
back — the  same  you  knocked  on  the  door  for  that  other 
time." 

93 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"She  was  like  a  ghost " 

"Fergit  it!"  said  the  policeman.  "I  bet  she's  got  a 
elate  with  that  lousy  old  hypocrite  up  there."  He  indi 
cated  the  dim  light  at  Partridge's  window.  "Lay  low, 
and  you'll  see  him  come  down  and  let  her  in." 

There  is  always  a  mystery  about  a  light  burning 
dimly  in  a  house  late  at  night.  Some  one  revels.  Some 
one  mourns.  Some  one  does  his  bit  of  creation  that 
may  change  the  face  of  the  world.  But  as  often  as  not, 
if  the  truth  be  known,  some  one  is  up  there  calling  on 
the  Lord  for  help. 

It  was  that  way  with  Partridge  now  in  this  room  he 
called  his  own — a  small  chaste  room,  very  plain  but 
perfectly  kept.  It  was  lit  by  a  single  candle.  And 
Partridge,  still  fully  dressed  except  that  he  had  laid 
aside  his  coat,  and  thus  quite  the  picture  of  the  old 
gentleman  despite  the  fact  that  he  was  nothing  but  a 
butler,  had  knelt  at  the  side  of  his  narrow  bed. 

He  was  praying  hard. 

"Grant  that  neither  of  them  find  it  out,  O  Lord,"  he 
labored.  "And  her — move  her  heart  to  make  it  pure 
and » 

Here  he  stopped  short.  The  dead  silence  of  the  house 
had  been  shattered  by  a  light  staccato  rapping  from  the 
direction  of  the  lower  hall.  Some  one  was  knocking  at 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  WOLF  COMES  OUT 

IT  is  to  be  doubted  that  Partridge  would  have  done 
otherwise  even  if  he  had  known  who  it  was  down 
there.  He  may  even  have  suspected  who  it  was. 
He  was  a  bit  nervous  as  he  got  into  his  coat.  The  candle 
flickered  and  flared  in  his  hand.  There  was  another 
knock  and  yet  another  before  he  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
lower  flight,  and  his  nervousness  increased.  But  this 
may  have  been  merely  from  the  distress  that  he  felt  at 
having  caused  a  caller  at  the  Tyrone  house  to  wait  so 
long. 

Arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he  set  the  candle 
on  the  console.  He  straightened  his  coat.  He  hastily 
unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it. 

No,  he  could  scarcely  have  expected  this  caller  after 
all. 

"Mme.  Jenesco/'  he  began.  He  had  intended  to  make 
his  voice  sound  authoritative  but  instead  it  faltered. 

The  caller  he  had  addressed  as  Mme.  Jenesco  brushed 
past  him.  It  was  the  woman  who  had  told  Buckhannon 
her  name  was  Belle.  Into  the  hall  she  had  brought 
something  of  chill,  also  of  dampness,  also  of  that  faunal 
taint  of  musk. 

95 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  said.     "It's  beginning  to  snow." 

Partridge  did  not  instantly  shut  the  door — not  alto 
gether;  just  enough  to  keep  the  draught  from  the  candle 
and  also  to  keep  any  one  who  happened  to  be  passing 
from  looking  in.  He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 
He  looked  at  the  woman  with  a  distracted  face. 

"I  warned  you — I  begged  you,"  he  said,  "not  to  come 
here  again." 

"You  should  worry,"  she  said.  "The  family's  not 
here." 

"It  is  late." 

"Late!"  she  laughed.  "The  night's  young  yet.  It's 
only  ten." 

There  was  nothing  particularly  brutal  about  all  this, 
in  spite  of  the  coarseness  of  her  speech  and  the  way  she 
had  forced  her  way  into  the  house.  She  was  inclined 
to  smile  upon  Partridge,  treat  him  with  a  degree  of 
good-natured  contempt. 

"May  I  ask  you  to  state " 

" — what  I  came  for?  You  ought  to  be  able  to 
guess." 

"If  it's  money " 

"You  said  it.  I  want  money.  I'm  tired  of  living 
on  air." 

"Madam " 

"I  haven't  any  objection  to  sitting  down,"  said  Belle, 
and  she  seated  herself.  She  made  a  striking  but  sin 
ister  picture  there  in  the  candle-flare,  surrounded  by 
deep  shadows.  She  was  dressed  in  black.  Her  face 
appeared  to  be  very  white,  her  lips  very  red,  her  eyes 

96 


The  Wolf  Comes  Out 

abnormally  dark.  She  seemed  to  be  a  little  thinner. 
This  may  have  been  mere  imagination,  but  there  ap 
peared  also  to  be  a  wolflike  line  of  hunger  and  appetite 
in  the  contour  of  her  cheek. 

"Your  regular  allowance  was  sent  you  at  the  first  of 
the  month,"  Partridge  affirmed.  He  was  stifling  his  re 
proach,  but  he  was  greatly  distressed. 

"A  rotten  hundred  dollars !"  she  scorned.  "Go  ahead 
and  shut  the  door.  No  use  advertising  our  family  trou 
bles  to  the  whole  neighborhood." 

Partridge  shut  the  door.     But  he  stiffened. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  should  not  be  forced  to  re 
mind  you  that  you  are  a  recipient  of  charity,  and  that 
this  charity  is  most  generous." 

Mme.  Jenesco  lost  some  of  her  smiling  indifference. 

"I  want  another  hundred,"  she  said;  "and  I  want  it 
now." 

"You  cannot  have  it." 

"Not  so  fast!  I  didn't  come  here  to  beg.  I  didn't 
come  here  to  get  insulted  either.  It  would  help  me  a 
lot  if  you  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine  or  something.  I 
got  a  chill.  I  feel  feverish." 

Partridge  wavered. 

"I  am  very  sorry  if  you  are  ill,  but  you  must  see  how 
irregular  this  is.  I — I  really  must  ask  you  to  transact 
your  further  business  through  Judge  Bancroft.  I  keep 
no  funds  here  in  the  house." 

"You  came  across  easily  enough  that  other  time." 

"That  was  when  the  family  was  here." 

"And  what  has  Judge  Bancroft  got  to  do  with  it?" 

97 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"He  is,  I  may  say,  the  family  lawyer." 

"Oh!  So  that's  it!  Lawyer!  Why  didn't  I  ever 
think  of  that  myself!  Say,  I  bet  I  could  get  one  of 
those  little  shysters  who  hang  around  the  Criminal 
Courts  Building  who'd  make  you  come  across.  What 
are  you  shaking  so  much  about  ?  Are  you  going  to  give 
me  that  glass  of  wine?  I  need  it." 

Partridge,  sure  enough,  had  begun  to  shake  at  Mme. 
Jenesco's  mention  of  a  lawyer.  He  had  tried  to  pro 
test.  All  he  could  do  was  to  lift  a  hand.  The  hand 
trembled.  She  saw  that  she  had  won  some  sort  of  a 
triumph.  She  was  almost  amiable  again. 

"Come  on,"  she  said;  "I'll  carry  the  candle  for  you." 

"I  must  beg  you  to  leave,"  said  Partridge. 

"I  don't  intend  to  leave." 

"I  must  order  you  to." 

"And  if  I  don't." 

"There's  an  officer  in  the  street " 

Mme.  Jenesco,  who  had  risen,  came  a  little  closer  to 
Partridge,  looked  at  him  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes, 
and  smiled  for  a  moment  without  saying  a  word. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  softly.  "Go  as  far  as  you  want. 
Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that  there's  some  secret 
about  this  house  that  you  don't  want  advertised?  Do 
you  suppose  I'm  not  next  to  the  stories  that  all  your 
neighbors  tell  about  this  place?  Do  you  suppose  I  didn't 
hear  certain  things  from  my  mother?  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  don't  know  you're  holding  out  something  on  Mr. 
Tyrone?"  She  waited  for  perhaps  a  half-dozen  sec 
onds — just  long  enough  to  see  that  each  of  her  ques- 

98 


The  Wolf  Comes  Out 
i 

tions  had  been  a  shot  and  that  each  shot  had  gon6 
home.  "It's  really  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about," 
she  said  with  a  change  of  tone.  "Come  on;  we  can 
talk  better  after  we've  had  something  to  drink." 

Partridge,  shaken — too  shaken  for  thought,  and  also, 
perhaps,  obedient  to  the  habits  of  a  lifetime — picked  up 
the  candle  and  led  the  way  back  through  the  hall.  He 
was  so  shaken  that  his  step  could  have  been  described 
as  tottering.  But  there  was  a  degree  of  formality,  even 
so,  in  the  way  he  ushered  Mme.  Jenesco  into  the  room 
where  Judge  Bancroft  had  been  entertained.  There  he 
lit  more  candles,  as  he  had  done  on  that  former  occa 
sion.  With  a  murmured  word  of  apology  he  with 
drew — leaving  Mme.  Jenesco  to  look  about  her  at  the 
twilit,  impressive  richness  of  the  place. 

Partridge  was  long — so  long  that  Mme.  Jenesco  be 
came  a  bit  suspicious.  With  her  feline  speed  and  softness 
she  went  to  the  door  through  which  Partridge  had  dis 
appeared.  She  peered.  She  listened.  Then,  satisfied, 
she  came  back  and  seated  herself  in  the  chair  that  had 
been  Tyrone's  on  the  night  the  judge  was  there.  And 
at  her,  also,  the  old  portraits  looked  down  grimly,  but 
she  was  as  indifferent  to  their  staring  as  a  cat  would 
have  been. 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  pull  the  cork  till  you  got  here," 
she  smiled,  when  Partridge  had  at  last  returned.  He 
merely  gave  her  a  troubled  look.  "I'm  not  sure  yet  you 
haven't  slipped  some  dope  in  it,"  she  explained.  "I  sup 
pose  it'd  break  you  all  up  if  I  was  to  die !" 

99 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Partridge  did  not  speak  until  he  had  decanted  a  glass 
of  the  red  wine.  He  poured  none  for  himself. 

"I  wish  you  no  ill,  madam,"  he  said,  soberly.  "What 
was  it  you  wished  to  propose?" 

Mme.  Jenesco  sipped  her  wine  guardedly  to  make 
sure  that  it  was  good.  It  stood  the  test.  She  emptied 
her  glass  and  passed  it  back  to  be  refilled. 

"I  was  wondering,"  she  said,  "why  you  and  I 
shouldn't  get  together  right." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OF  BLOOD  AND  GOLD 

GET  together,  madam?"  queried   Partridge,  with 
cold  dignity.     "I — I  don't  understand." 
"There's  no  use  making  bones  about  it,"  said 
Mme.  Jenesco,  reaching  for  the  glass  that  Partridge  had 
scarcely  had  the  time  to  fill;  "when  the  druggist  across 
the  street  told  me  that  Tyrone  and  the  little  blonde  had 
gone  away  and  left  you  here  all  alone  it  made  me  feel 
real  sore." 

Partridge  waited.  His  silence  was  rather  trying  for 
the  caller. 

"Sit  down,"  she  urged.  "You  don't  have  to  be  so 
stiff  with  me.  Why  don't  you  pour  a  glass  of  wine  for 
yourself?  It'll  do  you  good.  This  place's  about  as 
cheerful  as  a  morgue." 

"I  beg  pardon,  madam ;  but " 

"Oh,  cut  it;  come  on;  be  friendly." 

"You  were  about  to  say " 

"Well,  why  should  they  be  off  enjoying  themselves, 
and  seeing  all  the  sights,  when  you  and  I  haven't  got 
anything?  For  that  matter,  why  should  they  have  a 
house  like  this,  and  put  on  such  airs " 

"I  cannot  discuss,  madam,  subjects  that  concern  my 
master  alone." 

101 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Your  master!'* 

"My  master,  madam." 

"You  seem  to  be  proud  of  him." 

"I  am — I  have  always  been — proud " 


"Were  you  proud  of  him  when  he  killed  his  own 
father?" 

"That  is  a  damnable,  a  most  preposterous  lie." 

"Oh,  it  is!  And  I  suppose  it's  a  lie  that  they  buried 
a  woman  from  this  house — a  woman  that  had  been  kept 
here  in  secret!" 

Partridge  closed  his  eyes  the  better  to  get  a  grip  on 
himself.  Maybe  he  was  fishing  into  his  thought  for 
some  sustaining  text  from  Melissine's  calendar.  A 
moment  later  he  looked  as  if  this  might  have  been  the 
case,  and  his  voice  supported  the  theory,  too,  when  he 
spoke. 

"Madam,"  he  said  gently,  "I  am  aware  of  the  wicked 
gossip  that  has  afflicted  us  for  so  many  years.  It  all 
had  its  origin — all  our  troubles  had  their  origin — with 
this  woman  who,  as  you  state,  had  been  kept  here  in 
secret.  The  woman  was — your  mother.  She  was 
brought  here  sick;  she  was  dying.  I  suppose  that  we 
should  not  blame  outsiders  for  imputing  evil  to  Mr. 
Nathan  Tyrone's  kind  act  when  his  own  father  failed 
to  comprehend  it.  Indeed,  it  was  this  misapprehension 
on  the  elder  Mr.  Tyrone's  part  that  hastened  his  end." 

"But  that  burial  at  night,"  said  Belle,  partly  per 
suaded. 

"Not  at  night,  but  at  twilight,"  said  Partridge;  and, 
forgetful  of  his  dignity,  he  touched  his  eyes  with  his 

1 02 


Of  Blood  and  Gold 

handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose.  "That  was  the  hour  at 
which  the  elder  Mr.  Tyrone  wished  to  be  buried — as  his 
father  had  been  buried  before  him — whom  I  also  served." 

"Well,  there's  something  wrong,  somewhere." 

"I— I  deny  it." 

Mme.  Jenesco  laughed  softly,  sipped  her  wine.  Par 
tridge's  eyes  were  fugitive,  as  one  might  say.  Hers  were 
bold. 

"Then,  why,"  she  asked  lightly,  "are  you  always  so 
scared  when  I  threaten  to  come  here  and  speak  to  Mr. 
Tyrone?  Why  were  you  so  leary  just  now  when  I 
talked  about  calling  in  a  lawyer  ?  I  could  see  right  away 
that  you  had  made  a  bad  break — and  you  knew  it,  too! 
— when  you  pulled  that  bluff  about  me  seeing  Judge 
Bancroft.  I  bet  I  could  hire  a  lawyer  that'd  have  Judge 
Bancroft  himself  running  for  cover,  too.  I  know  some 
of  these  heavy  respectables.  I  bet  a  clever  lawyer  could 
hang  something  on  every  last  one  of  'em — enough  to 
send  'em  all  to  jail." 

"Is  there  anything  else?"  asked  Partridge. 

"You  haven't  heard  yet  what  my  proposition  is,"  said 
Mme.  Jenesco.  She  had  been  taking  her  time  about 
studying  Partridge.  She  was  increasingly  sure  of  her 
self.  "Just  how  much  have  you  made — all  these  years 
you've  been  serving  these  extra  fine  people?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  a  poor  man,"  Partridge  hastily  replied. 

"A  poor  goat,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "Here  you've 
been  slaving  for  them  for  God  knows  how  long;  and 
you're  still  poor,  and  they're  rich." 

"Their  fortune  is  limited." 
103 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 


"How  much  ?" 

"I  have — I  cannot- 


"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "You  write 
all  the  checks.  I  was  cashing  mine  in  the  bank  one 
day  when  you  came  in.  I  saw  you  draw  out  a  roll  that'd 
've  choked  a  horse.  Why  don't  you  take  some  of  this 
money  and  make  your  getaway?  Why  don't  you  go  on 
a  trip  to  Europe?  Listen!  You  and  me!  We  could 
go  down  to  Palm  Beach  together.  I'm  sick  of  this  rot 
ten  town.  You're  young  yet " 

"My  God,  madam!"  Partridge  exploded. 

"Take  a  glass  of  wine ;  it'll  brace  you  up." 

"Will  you  please  go?" 

Mme.  Jenesco  was  not  offended.  She  got  to  her 
feet — slowly,  with  a  sort  of  writhing  grace.  But  instead 
of  taking  the  direction  of  the  door  she  came  to  Par 
tridge's  side. 

"Why  should  I  go,  on  a  night  like  this?"  she  asked, 
softly.  "It's  cold  and  wet  outside.  I  live  a  mile  from 
here.  The  streets  in  this  part  of  town  are  enough  to 
frighten  a  second-story  man.  And  I  suppose  you  know 
that  my  husband  died  last  month  in  San  Francisco." 

"You  have  my  sympathy,"  said  Partridge  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"You  needn't  feel  any  worse  about  it  than  I  do,"  she 
replied,  in  her  most  lulling  voice.  "He  was  no  good. 
My  real  reason  for  seeing  you  to-night  was  that  I  was 
feeling  lonely." 

Partridge  did  not  move  from  her  so  much  as,  it  ap 
peared,  he  shrank  into  himself. 

104 


Of  Blood  and  Gold 

"I  will  ask  you  to  listen  to  me,"  he  said. 

"I'm  listening." 

"I  have  served  the  Tyrones  from  boyhood.  I  am 
going  to  serve  them  still."  . 

"Have  your  own  way." 

"But  you  may  remain  here  if  you  wish — as  your 
mother  did — before  you  were  born.  You  may  even 
sleep  in  her  bed,  if  you  care  to.  No  one  has  slept  in  it 
since.  I've  kept  it  pretty  much  as  she  left  it.  Would 
you  like  to  see  it?" 

"That  kind  of  stuff  wouldn't  worry  me,"  said  Belle; 
"not  if  the  room  was  aired."  Then  her  mouth  went 
bitter.  "I  came  here  to-night  in  need,"  she  said  im 
pulsively,  "and  looking  for  a  friend — the  only  place  I 
had  to  turn  to  in  New  York."  There  was  an  involun 
tary  sob  in  her  voice.  "And  this  is  the  sort  of  treatment 
I  get!" 

Partridge  melted. 

"I  didn't  know— I  thought " 

"Because  I  had  to  have  a  little  money!  But  I  know 
where  I  can  get  it — out  in  the  streets !" 

"No,  no !"  said  Partridge.  "There ! — for  the  sake  of 
kind  Heaven,  madam!"  He  went  over  to  a  panel  of 
woodwork  at  the  side  of  the  fireplace  and  there,  by  a 
manipulation  that  Belle  could  not  follow,  revealed  a 
safe  built  into  the  wall.  He  opened  this  quite  carelessly 
and  took  out  a  number  of  bills.  "Take  these,"  he  said, 
coming  back  to  Belle;  "and  God  see  you  safely  home!" 

Belle's  inscrutable  eyes  met  his.  Without  shifting  her 
gaze  she  put  the  money  into  some  hiding-place  of  her 

105 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

own.    The  bitterness  had  left  her  mouth.    She  slowly 
smiled. 

"You're  a  good  old  soul,"  she  said,  with  just  a  hint 
of  friendly  mockery.  "But  I'll  not  forget  this  night,  and 
I  don't  think  you  will,  either.  You  and  I  are  going  to 
see  each  other  again." 

Up  in  his  room,  long,  long  after  the  woman  was  gone, 
Partridge  sought  relief  in  prayer  again.  But  no  great 
relief  was  to  be  had.  He  was  distrait.  He  couldn't  con 
centrate.  All  that  he  could  say  was  to  repeat  over  and 
over  again  what  he  had  already  started  to  say  earlier 
in  the  night : 

"Grant  that  neither  of  them  find  it  out!  Move  her 
heart — to  make  it  pure  and  gentle!" 

There  could  have  been  no  doubt  that  the  first  part  of 
this  petition  referred  to  the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
house;  nor  that  the  second  part  of  it  referred  to  her 
who  now  walked  away,  through  the  damp  snow,  slowly 
and  unafraid — thinking,  thinking — toward  her  own 
abode. 

Belle  Jenesco  had  plenty  to  think  about.  A  vague 
ambition  was  revolving  in  her  mind — revolving  with  such 
flashes  of  bright  possibility  that  it  made  her  dizzy  almost. 
Here  a  man  accosted  her.  She  dismissed  him  with  a 
look.  An  old  beggar  whined  at  her  from  a  doorstep. 
She  stopped  and  gave  him  a  coin — "For  luck !"  she  told 
herself.  She  wondered  what  was  that  secret  that  Par 
tridge  guarded.  She  began  to  guess.  She  was  not  with- 

106 


out    intuition — not    without    imagination — not    without, 
most  of  all,  a  stark  and  naked  knowledge  of  sex. 

The  winter  deepened.  The  snow  came.  The  sounds 
of  the  great  city  were  more  muffled  than  ever.  More 
than  ever  was  Cinnamon  Street  sequestered.  More  than 
ever  was  No.  6  a  container  ol  mysterious  life,  frozen 
now,  but  whence  weird  flowers  might  blossom  in  the 
spring. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WEIRD   BLOSSOMS 

THERE  were  weird  blossoms  enough  already  inside 
of  No.  6 — as  the  flowers  may  be  supposed  to  exist 
already  in  the  heart  of  the  frost-bound  rose-bush. 
It  was  a  haunted  garden,  so  to  speak,  through  which 
might  walk  almost  any  sort  of  specter. 

Tyrone  had  come  back  with  his  daughter  from  Paris. 
Tyrone  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  lethargy.  He  who  had 
always  been  'so  indifferent  to  the  world  was  now  more 
indifferent  than  ever — to  the  actual  world,  that  is.  And 
he  who  had  always  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own  fashion 
ing — ever  since  he  was  a  young  man  painting  pictures 
in  the  graveyard  next  door  and  attending  spirit  worship 
in  the  abandoned  chapel — now  lived  altogether  in  such 
a  world.  It  was  a  world  all  his  own.  It  was  a  world 
that  had  but  the  vaguest  rapport  with  the  world  in 
general. 

And  this  world  was  the  garden  wherein  the  weird 
blossoms  grew.  It  was  the  world  of  his  mind. 

"Partridge !" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  am  here,  sir!" 

The  master  of  No.  6  was  seated  in  his  music-room — 
the  room  he  favored  most  because  of  the  portrait  that 

108 


Weird  Blossoms 

hung  over  the  fireplace.  He  was  seated  before  the  fire 
place.  He  lounged  there  rather — limp  and  graceful.  He 
wore  his  velvet  coat  and  his  flowing  tie.  His  hair  was 
long  and  wavily  disheveled.  The  firelight  rose  and  fell. 
At  times  this  made  of  him  a  picture  of  shadowy  depres 
sion.  At  times  it  made  him  a  picture  of  Satanic  life. 

"Is  it  not  almost  Christmas,  Partridge?" 

"This  is  the  nineteenth,  sir." 

Partridge  kept  track  of  dates.  No  day  went  past  now 
but  that  he  consulted  Melissine's  calendar.  The  motto 
for  this  day  had  been:  "Be  thou  faithful  unto  death, 
and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  life."  And  a  supple 
mental  whisper  had  come  to  Partridge:  "Be  faithful 
unto  the  death  of  Mr.  Tyrone,  for  Mr.  Tyrone  is  not 
long  for  this  earth." 

"The  nineteenth,"  said  Tyrone.  "I  shall  have  to  be 
looking  to  my  charity." 

"I  have  been  sending  the  usual  remittance,  sir,"  Part 
ridge  said  with  an  undoubted  nervousness." 

"How  much  was  that?" 

"One  hundred  dollars  a  month,  sir." 

Tyrone  reflected. 

"I  think  that  I  shall  give  her  a  year's  allowance  in 
advance." 

"That  would  be  a  great  deal  of  money,  sir." 

"The  estate  will  bear  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"And  after  I  am  dead — and  Melissine  has  everything 
— perhaps  circumstances  will  arise  that  will  prevent  fu 
ture  payments." 

109 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Partridge  clasped  his  hands.  He  unclasped  them. 
He  was  standing  where  Tyrone  could  not  see  his  face. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  portrait  above  the  fireplace.  The 
lady  up  there  smiled  at  him  deliciously.  Somehow  this 
encouraged  Partridge.  It  was  as  if  he  were  taking  her 
part  against  the  Woman  in  Black. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  venture  to  make  a  sug 
gestion." 

"I  know  what  it  will  be,"  droned  Tyrone.  "I  know 
what  you're  going  to  say,  Partridge.  You're  going  to 
say  that  the  creature  has  no  claim  upon  me  and  that 
this  continual  gift  of  money  will  cause  talk." 

"Not  quite  that,  sir." 

"Yes  it  is.  I  know  your  thought.  And  I  remember 
what  you  said  when  I  brought  that  unfortunate  home 

with  me How   long  ago  was   it?    Thirty  years! 

Thirty  years  ago,  come  Christmas!     I  found  her  drunk 
or  drugged  in  the  snow.     Remember?" 

"I  remember,  sir." 

"Remember  how  you  helped  me  to  smuggle  her  into 
one  of  the  vacant  rooms  up-stairs,  and  care  for  her  there, 
and  feed  her,  without  my  father  knowing  anything 
about  it  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir !  And  how  you  took  all  the  blame — when 
your  father  did  find  out." 

"Blame!  There  was  no  blame!  There  was  a  mis 
understanding  !  Men  have  been  blamed  for  many  things 
in  this  world  that  will  win  them  the  congratulations  of 
the  angels.  How  long  ago  did  she  die?" 

"It  was  fifteen  years  ago,  sir." 

no 


Weird  Blossoms 

"That's  right.  And  we've  been  keeping  up  the  pay 
ments  to  her  daughter?" 

"Yes,  sir.     It  was  as  you  directed." 

"She  must  be  quite  a  big  girl  now." 

"She  is  a  woman  of — thirty,  sir.'* 

"Ever  see  her?" 

"I  have,  sir." 

"A  good  woman?" 

"I  hardly  know " 

Tyrone  laughed  mournfully.  While  Partridge  still 
stood  there  back  of  him  clasping  and  unclasping  his 
hands,  Tyrone  let  his  attention  revert  to  the  portrait 
above  the  fireplace. 

"It  is  odd,"  said  Tyrone,  softly,  as  he  looked  up  at 
her,  "that  I  should  have  clung  to  life  as  if  it  were  sweet 
when  only  in  death  is  there  sweetness.  Love  is  sweet. 
But  love  is  nothing  but  the  prelude  to  death. 

"I  dreamed  last  night  that  I  was  in  a  thick  garden  of 
poppies,  and  the  poppies  grew  so  lush  and  thick  that  they 
swooned  of  their  own  fragrance,  and  she  was  there,  and 
so  was  I,  and  that  was  death.  Oh,  Partridge!" 

"I  am  here,  sir." 

"Did  you  ever  love  a  woman,  Partridge?" 

"I  suppose  you  may  say,  sir" — and  Partridge,  nervous, 
had  also  let  his  old  eyes  lift  to  the  portrait  over  the 
mantelpiece — "that  I  did,  sir." 

"Was  she  beautiful,  Partridge?" 

"She  was,  sir." 

"And  is  she  still  living,  Partridge?" 

"She's  dead,  sir." 

in 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"More  and  more,"  sad  Tyrone,  drifting  back  into  his 
musings;  "more  and  more,  it  is  the  dead  who  call  to 
the  quick,  the  quick  who  respond  to  the  dead.  It  is  the 
dead  girl  who  calls  to  her  lover — he  who  has  remained 
on  earth  and  is  growing  old  and  is  thought  to  have  out 
lived  romance.  It  is  the  dead  lover,  young  and  fair, 
who  calls  to  the  aging  matron.  Now  I  am  old,  but  she 
whom  I  love  is  young  and  fair " 

One  would  have  said  that  his  soliloquy  had  served 
as  an  incantation.  The  door  had  softly  opened.  Into 
the  dusk  of  the  room  there  had  come  a  vision  of  the 
spirit  to  whom  Tyrone  had  called — young  and  fair, 
clad  in  the  garments  of  another  generation. 

It  was  Melissine. 

There  was  a  lace  cap  on  her  head.  She  wore  a  light- 
blue  sack,  soft  and  loose,  of  silk,  richly  laced,  and 
embroidered  with  countless  little  flowers  and  garlands 
that  ran  through  the  whole  gamut  of  colors  from  black 
to  white.  Under  the  sack  was  one  of  those  diaphanous, 
classic  one-piece  robes,  girdled  high  up,  such  as  the 
painter  David  designed  at  the  outbreak  of  the  French 
Revolution.  This  was  white.  It  clung  and  floated  to 
her  slightest  curve  and  movement.  It  revealed  that  her 
pink  feet  wore  nothing  but  light  gold  sandals. 

Tyrone  watched  her  enthralled.  She  raised  her  hand 
slightly  in  goodfellowship-greeting  to  Partridge.  She 
kissed  her  father  on  the  forehead,  fondly,  with  the  deli 
cate  concentration  of  a  butterfly. 

"And  what  has  my  darling  been  about  this  morning?" 
he  asked. 

112 


Weird  Blossoms 

"I've  sewed.  I've  embroidered."  Did  she  suspect 
what  ailed  her  father?  She  caressed  him.  "I've  copied 
another  ten  pages  of  your  beautiful  poem." 

"Oh,  Partridge !" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"I  think  you  may  serve  our  luncheon  here." 

"Perfectly,  sir." 

And  Partridge  silently  withdrew. 

Partridge  knew  what  it  was  that  ailed  Tyrone.  Par 
tridge  had  served  three  generations  of  Tyrones.  He 
knew  them  as  he  would  have  known  them  had  he  been 
the  mother  of  the  race. 

In  the  first  place,  Melissine  had  told  Partridge  all 
about  what  had  happened  in  France — what  had  hap 
pened  to  herself.  She  had  met  Eugene  Buckhannon 
there.  That  was  the  sum  and  substance  of  it.  In  the 
second  place,  Partridge  had  understood  perfectly  what 
this  had  meant  to  Nathan  Tyrone. 

Tyrone  had  embarked  on  a  spirit  honeymoon  with  a 
spirit  bride.  He  had  seen  a  younger  man  come  and 
claim  this  spirit-bride  for  his  own.  And  of  this  Tyrone 
was  dying. 

"You  will  want  other  clothes,"  Tyrone  had  said. 

He  would  never  have  suggested  that  to  Melissine  be 
fore  the  voyage.  Then  Melissine  had  not  been  the 
daughter.  She  had  been  the  bride  of  twenty  years  ago 
come  back  to  inhabit  the  earth — a  bride  who,  herself, 
had  already  had  that  touch  of  unearthliness  about  her 
because  of  the  eighteenth-century  clothes  she  had  pre 
ferred  to  wear.  You  get  those  old  types  in  old  civiliza- 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

tions.  Paris  is  full  of  types  like  that — disconcerting  and 
sometimes  beautiful  characters  straight  out  of  the  Middle 
SAges,  even. 

And  Tyrone  himself  was  the  product  of  an  older  civili 
zation  of  America.  He  came  from  a  family  that  had 
clung  to  candles,  for  whom  newspapers  did  not  exist, 
who  led  cloistral  lives,  who  mated  with  women  who  died 
young. 

Tyrone  should  have  been  reading  an  illumined  manu 
script  as  he  sat  there  in  front  of  his  fire. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  LIGHT  AND  THE  DARK 

SO,  one  day  when  there  was  not  very  much  snow  in 
Cinnamon  Street,  Goodenough  had  come  driving 
up  to  No.  6 — with  a  closed  cab,  this  time,  instead 
of  an  open  one — and  those  who  watched  saw  Partridge 
come  out  of  the  door.  They  noticed  that  he  was  dressed 
for  an  excursion.  This  meant  that  he  was  muffled  up. 
He  wore  an  overcoat.  This  really  suggested  the  better 
but  old-fashioned  name  of  "greatcoat" — it  was  so  big 
and  thick  in  every  way.  And  Partridge  carried  a  plug 
hat  that  was  a  genuine  "beaver,"  the  nap  of  it  was  so 
thick  and  soft. 

He  was  followed  by  the  lady  of  the  house  (Melissine), 
who  might  have  suggested  a  little  marquise  to  any  one 
who  knew  about  such  things — with  her  tricorn  hat,  and 
her  long  dark  cloak  enveloping  her  from  head  to  heel. 
But  Tyrone  did  not  appear. 

It  was  Partridge  himself  who  assisted  his  mistress 
down  the  stoop  and  through  the  door  of  the  cab — while 
Goodenough,  also  muffled,  held  his  whip  aloft. 

There  had  followed  a  brief  colloquy  that  the  watchers 
could  not  catch,  although  they  tried  hard  enough  to  do 
so.  But  they  could  see  that  she  who  was  in  the  cab 

"5 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

was  indicating  that  there  was  plenty  of  room  there  at 
her  side.  They  could  see  that  the  old  butler  was  pro 
testing.  And  the  butler  apparently  had  his  way.  Final 
ly  he  had  climbed  up  to  the  seat  at  the  side  of  Good- 
enough.  And  thus  the  equipage  rolled  away. 

There  were  always  mysterious  happenings  like  that 
going  on  about  No'.  6. 

Had  they  only  known  it — the  watchers — this  tour  was 
more  wonderful  than  they  thought.  It  certainly  was 
very  wonderful  for  Melissine.  She  was  going  shopping. 
She  was  not  only  going  to  buy  some  Christmas  presents, 
she  was  going  to  buy  all  the  clothing  she  wanted  for 
herself.  Everything  that  she  saw  and  really  wanted  she 
could  have. 

Such  had  been  her  father's  orders  to  Partridge  when 
they  were  setting  forth. 

Goodenough  knew  the  stores — the  older  and  better 
ones.  He  drove  them  to  store  after  store.  The  stores 
were  crowded  with  Christmas  shoppers.  Sometimes  the 
service  wksn't  very  good — customers  impatient,  sales 
people  overworked ;  but  Melissine  didn't  jnind — she  was 
having  the  time  of  her  life ;  and  no  one  minded  when 
Melissine  was  served  before  her  turn. 

They  wondered  who  she  was.  They  looked  after  her, 
and  as  they  did  so  they  forgot  that  they  were  hurried 
and  worried.  She  looked  very  beautiful  and  foreign. 
They  could  see  how  happy  she  was.  She  smiled  at 
every  one.  But  most  of  all  she  smiled  at  the  old  gentle 
man  who  accompanied  her  and  insisted  on  carrying  all 
the  packages.  They  wondered  who  the  old  gentleman 

116 


The  Light  and  the  Dark 

was.  He  must  have  been  her  grandfather.  They 
seemed  so  devoted.  And  they  must  have  been  very  rich, 
to  judge  from  the  money  they  spent.  Nothing  cost  too 
much. 

They  had  come  into  one  of  the  largest  and  finest 
shops  of  all.  It  was  very  warm,  and  Melissine  tossed 
off  her  heavy  cloak. 

"Lined  with  sable,"  a  woman  whispered  to  another. 
"It  must  have  cost  a  fortune." 

"Look  at  her  dress,"  said  the  other. 

"Who  can  she  be?" 

"What  a  style!     Is  it  something  new?" 

Melissine  had  merely  chosen  one  of  the  best  winter 
dresses  in  her  mother's  trousseau.  It  was  a  dress  she 
had  always  loved,  yet  one  she  had  never  worn  before. 
Not  even  the  dead,  dear  Mme.  Tyrone  could  have  worn 
it  very  often. 

It  was  a  heavy  silk  of  dark  blue — a  very  full  skirt,  a 
stiff  bodice  rather  low  at  the  throat  where  it  was  trimmed 
with  a  jeweled  bar  of  Russian  design.  There  were 
bands  of  sable  fur  across  her  shoulders,  and  nothing 
could  have  been  more  alluring  than  the  contrast  of  this 
fur  and  Melissine's  nacred  skin. 

-"Look  at  that  designer  sketching  her  sleeves,"  said 
one  of  the  women. 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  said  the  other. 

The  sleeves  were  full  to  the  elbow,  where  there  was 
an  undersleeve  of  old  lace  caught  up  in  the  angle  of 
the  elbow  with  a  jewel. 

Other  designers  were  furtively  following  now — Irish, 
117 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

French,  and  Russian  Jew,  artists  all,  responsive  to  an 
inspiration,  wondering  what  nameless  genius  had  robed 
this  girl. 

"Cest  magnifique!"  • 

"She  must  be  a  Rooshin!     Some  creation!" 

''Where  did  she  get  it?  You  can't  buy  silk  like  that 
any  more."  , 

Did  Melissine  notice?  Perhaps.  She  enjoyed  it  if 
she  did.  And  of  all  the  people  whom  she  so  obviously 
interested,  one  there  was  whom  she  apparently  inter 
ested  most  of  all.  This  was  also  a  woman,  and  the 
woman  herself  was  worthy  of  some  note. 

She  was  of  a  type  that  subtly  suggested  a  wild  animal ; 
it  was  hard  to  tell  just  why.  It  was  a  little  in  the  ex 
pression  of  her  face — an  expression  that  somehow  meant 
that  the  owner  of  the  face  had  a  good  appetite.  There 
was  an  animal  beauty  in  her  face.  There  was  an  animal 
grace  in  the  lines  of  her  shape  and  in  her  sinuosities 
when  she  walked.  But  all  this  so  subtle  and  unpro- 
nounced  that  the  observation  might  have  been  as  much 
of  the  imagination  as  of  mere  sight. 

Mme.  Jenesco ! 

Partridge  had  seen  her  and  his  heart  was  tripping. 
He  went  very  rigid  under  the  packages  he  carried. 

It  is  doubtful  if  at  first  Mme.  Jenesco  had  recognized 
the  girl  in  the  gorgeous  dress.  She  had  been  impressed, 
as  had  the  others,  merely  by  Melissine's  general  appear 
ance.  It  may  have  struck  her  as  interesting  also  that 
Melissine  should  have  been  engaged  in  buying  a  gold 
cigarette-case.  Mme.  Jenesco  herself  had  been  engaged 

118 


The  Light  and  the  Darti 

in  looking  over  the  stock  of  cigarette-cases.  It  was 
Melissine's  idea  that  such  a  bauble  might  serve  as  her 
present  for  Buckhannon. 

"Is  he  rich  or  poor?"  asked  Partridge,  when  she  had 
sought  his  advice. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Melissine.  "I  imagine  that  he's 
poor.  He's  a  student  and  lives  in  the  Latin  Quarter." 

"That  would  be  rather  elaborate  for  a  poor  young 
man,"  Partridge  counseled  gently.  "Er — eh— — " 

Then  Mme.  Jenesco  had  seen  who  It  was  with  Melis 
sine  and  she  was  no  longer  in  any  doubt  at  all  who 
Melissine  was.  Mme.  Jenesco  had  given  Partridge  a 
gloating  look,  then  had  ignored  him.  There  was  a 
pleasure  in  the  woman's  face.  But  a  psychologist  per 
haps  would  have  said  that  it  was  a  pleasure  tinged  with 
a  killing  desire.  The  killing  desire  deftly  became  the 
dawning  purpose.  She  saw  that  Partridge  was  restless. 
She  caught  her  breath.  She  shifted  her  position. 

Mme.  Jenesco  had  drawn  so  close  to  Melissine  that 
she  was  almost  touching  her.  She  seemed  to*  take  a 
certain  luxury  in  this.  She  picked  up  another  cigarette- 
case  like  the  one  that  Melissine  had  been  admiring.  She 
spoke  to  the  saleswoman. 

"How  much  is  this?" 

But  even  while  she  was  not  looking  at  Melissine,  one 
could  see  that  every  fiber  of  her  was  concentrated  on 
contact  with  the  girl  at  her  side.  She  watched  her 
chance  and  smoothly  spoke  to  Melissine. 

"Everything  is  so  dear!" 

Melissine  gave  her  a  brief  smile.  For  a  second  their 

119 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

eyes  met.  There  was  a  look  in  Mme.  Jenesco's  eyes 
that  apparently  startled  Melissine  slightly,  for  she  turned 
her  smile  swiftly  to  Partridge.  Did  she  surprise  that 
look  of  grim  anguish  in  the  old  man's  face  ?  She  glanced 
again  at  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  prices,"  she  said.  "This 
is  the  first  time  that  I've  ever  been  shopping.  Which 
one  would  you  select?" 

"Is  it  for  yourself?"  Mme.  Jenesco  asked. 

Melissine  colored  ever  so  slightly. 

"It  is  for — a  friend.  He's  in  Paris.  He's  not  coming 
home  until  the  spring." 

"How  much  can  you  spend?" 

"As  much  as  I  wish,  I  suppose — anything  within  rea 
son.  That  is  what  father  said." 

Partridge  broke  in.  He  cleared  his  throat.  He  spoke 
more  roughly  than  he  generally  did:  "I  beg  pardon, 
but  we  should  be  getting  on !" 

Melissine  turned  sharply.  Mme.  Jenesco,  breathing 
deeply,  watched  them  go.  She  hesitated  yet  a  moment 
longer.  She  started  in  pursuit. 


THE  OVERHANGING  CLOUD 

SHE  would  dearly  have  loved  to  talk  to  Melissine 
again.  The  girl  rilled  her  with  curiosity  and  envy. 
But  it  was  to  Partridge  she  decided  to  speak. 
Through  the  crowds  she  followed  them  without  the  ap 
pearance  of  doing  so.  But  a  store-detective  saw  some 
thing  in  Mme.  Jenesco's  appearance  that  was  odd  and 
trailed  her,  in  turn,  for  a  little  while.  Not  for  long. 
Whatever  she  was,  she  was  no  shoplifter.  With  so 
much  he  was  satisfied.  All  women  were  a  little  crazy 
at  this  time  of  the  year.  So  the  store-detective  re 
flected.  He  had  troubles  enough  of  his  own. 

Mme.  Jenesco  followed  Partridge  and  his  lady  to  an 
upper  floor  where  dresses  were  sold,  and  here  Mme. 
Jenesco  had  her  opportunity;  for  Melissine  was  soon 
the  center  of  a  group  of  shopgirls,  and  Partridge,  em 
barrassed  and  in  need  of  rest,  sat  down  in  a  secluded 
place  to  rest. 

"How  do  yourdo  ?"  came  Mme.  Jenesco's  lulling  voice. 
"Don't  get  up  and  don't  get  excited.  I'll  forgive  you 
the  look  you  gave  me  down-stairs.  Why  didn't  you 
introduce  me?" 

Partridge  cast  anguished  eyes  in  the  direction  that 
Melissine  had  taken. 

121 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Don't  alarm  yourself,"  said  Belle.  "She's  gone  into 
One  of  the  fitting-rooms.  I  saw  her.  She's  good  for 
half  an  hour,  with  that  bunch  around  her,  and  the 
clothes  she  already  had  on."  She  calmly  pulled  a  chair 
closer  to  the  one  Partridge  occupied.  "Stay  where  you 
are,  I  tell  you.  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  the  small 
pox." 
r  "This  unwarranted " 

He  choked  up  so  that  he  couldn't  go  on. 

Mme.  Jenesco  spent  the  next  few  moments  examining 
the  cloak  that  Melissine  had  allowed  Partridge  to  carry. 

"It's  worth  more  than  I'll  ever  get,"  she  pronounced, 
with  no  great  spleen.  "Just  look  at  the  old  rag  I  have 
to  wear." 

Partridge  saw  what  he  considered  a  chance.  "You 
ate  very  well  dressed,  indeed,"  he  assured  her. 

"Yes,  I  am  not,"  she  replied,  with  her  customary  non 
chalance.  "But  I'm  going  to  be  better  dressed.  I  de 
cided  on  that  when  I  saw  the  way  you  were  spending 
tnoney,  down  there — you  and  the  little  blonde.  What's 
her  name?" 

"You  are  referring  to  Miss  Tyrone." 

"Miss  Tyrone!"  She  laughed  lightly.  "That's  what 
I  might  have  thought,  myself,  until  I  saw  her — saw  the 
things  she  had  on,  heard  her  make  that  break  about 
spending  as  much  as  she  wanted  to.  I  might  have 
guessed." 

"Guessed  what?" 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do? — pose  as  an  innocent? 
Do  men  spend  money  like  that  on  their  daughterst*— 

122 


The  Overhanging  Cloud 

when  they  live  in  an  old  brick  house  down  in  Cinanmon 
Street?"  Belle  drew  back  from  him  slightly  the  better 
to  laugh,  but  she  was  keeping  her  liquid  eyes  on  him. 
She  saw  the  old  gentleman's  nostrils  expand,  saw  the 
flush  that  crept  up  under  the  shriveled  pallor  of  his 
cheek.  "Who's  to  blame  if  I  feel  a  little  sore?" 

Partridge  closed  his  eyes  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
He  remained  silent. 

"I've  got  a  message  I  want  you  to  take  to  Mr.  Tyrone," 
said  Belle;  "and  if  you  don't  want  to  take  it,  why  say 
so,  and  I'll  take  it  myself." 

Partridge  spoke  mournfully  with  his  eyes  still  closed. 

"Mr.  Tyrone  is  very  ill.  Any  disturbance  might  prove 
rapidly  fatal." 

"That's  news,"  said  Belle;  "and  who's  going  to  in 
herit  the  family  fortune?  Her,  I  suppose." 

"The  fortune  is  limited." 

"I  know  all  about  that,  especially  after  this  morning. 
But  I'll  break  the  good  news  to  you,  anyway.  I  want 
ten  thousand  dollars."  She  was  glad  that  Partridge  had 
his  eyes  closed.  Like  that  he  wouldn't  know  how 
closely  she  was  watching  him.  And  she  didn't  have  to 
see  his  eyes.  His  face  was  as  sensitive  as  the  surface 
of  a  lake.  But  now  Partridge  slowly  opened  his  eyes. 
He  was  almost  unperturbed. 

"When  you  signed  your  last  receipt,"  he  said,  "you 
also  signed  an  agreement  that  you  had  no  claim  whatso 
ever  on  either  Mr.  Tyrone  or  his  daughter." 

"Some  of  Judge  Bancroft's  work!" 
123 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"In  any  case,  a  paper  to  which  you  could  take  no  ex 
ception." 

"I  love  to  hear  you  men  talk,"  said  Belle.  "You're 
all  alike.  Grab  everything  you  can  so  long  as  a  woman's 
young,  get  her  to  sign  a  paper,  and — good  night !  I  have 
half  a  notion,  at  that,  to  warn  the  little  blonde.  She's 
a  silly  little  thing,  but  she  has  the  looks,  and  I'm  sure 
we'd  like  each  other." 

Partridge  shuddered.  Belle  noticed  his  shudder  but 
merely  smiled.  She  reflected,  not  unhappily,  for  a  space, 
then  spoke  aloud  as  if  to  herself: 

"I  wonder  what  the  kid  would  think  if  I  was  to  tell 
her." 

Partridge  was  off  his  guard.     "Tell  her  what?" 

"Who  I  am!" 

"Why  should  you " 

Mme.  Jenesco  gave  Partridge  her  warmest  smile. 
She  was  hastily  preparing  to  leave.  "I'm  sorry  I  can't 
stay,"  she  said.  "There  comes  Miss  Tyrone !"  She  was 
still  smiling  when  she  purred  a  threat :  "But  you  get  me 
that  ten  thousand,  and  get  it  quick — before  the  end  of 
the  month!  Are  you  wise? — or  I'll  be  around  to  the 
house  to  get  it  myself." 

Partridge  said  nothing  to  Nathan  Tyrone  about  this 
encounter  in  the  store,  although  he  was  burning  to  do 
so.  There  were  certain  assurances  that  Partridge 
craved,  one  question  most  of  all  that  had  scare-crowed 
up  in  his  brain.  If  he  could  only  ask !  If  he  could  only 

124 


The  Overhanging  Cloud 

ask !  Several  times  Partridge  was  on  the  verge  of  doing 
so.  But,  after  all,  there  was  a  limit  to  the  things  that 
servant  could  say  to  master  and  master  say  to  servant, 
even  when  relations  were  such  as  theirs  had  always 
been. 

And  did  Partridge  have  the  right  to  ask  this  certain 
question  in  any  case?  Youth  must  be  served.  Let  the 
dead  past  bury  its  dead !  Judge  not !  Judge  not ! 

What  if  Mr.  Nathan  had  been  guilty  of  an  indiscre 
tion  in  his  youth? 

Not  that  Partridge  believed  him  to  have  been  guilty! 
He  ascribed  to  Tyrone  that  beautiful  innocence  that 
most  mothers  will,  in  spite  of  all,  ascribe  to  their  sons. 
But  this  wasn't  the  reason  that  Partridge  could  not  come 
right  out  and  ask  Tyrone:  "Was  this  woman's  mother, 
or  was  she  not,  anything  to  you  other  than  an  object  of 
charity?" 

The  greater  reason  was  that  Partridge  himself  had 
that  secret  in  his  own  breast — the  secret  that  he  shared 
with  Judge  Bancroft  alone,  the  secret  that,  not  for  his 
life's  sake,  would  he  have  imparted  to  Tyrone  or  the 
daughter  of  Tyrone,  these  two  whom  he  so  greatly 
loved. 

So  Partridge  held  his  peace.  But  he  felt  that  there 
was  a  blow  impending.  He  could  only  hope — and  pray. 

Partly  at  least  could  Melissine  aid  him,  and  she  did. 
But  Partridge  quaked — quaked  in  spite  of  his  faith,  in 
spite  of  such  consolation  as  he  could  derive  from  that 
calendar  that  Melissine  had  given  him,  and  also  from  the 
presence  of  Melissine  herself.  Melissine  and  Partridge 

125 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

were  each,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  of  great  service  to  each 
other  at  this  time. 

For  Nathan  Tyrone  was  slipping,  each  day  a  little  fur 
ther  from  this  world  into  the  next. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

RETURN  OF  THE  LOVER 

HE  was  like  one  of  those  men  old  Goodenough 
had  mentioned — a  part  of  him  dead  already. 
More  correctly,   he  had   found  himself  alone. 
For  every  man  is  more  or  less  the  captain  of  a  troop 
during  the  better  years — with  his  loves,  expectations,  his 
greeds  and  his  follies  and  his  fine  aspirations,  all  keep 
ing  step  with  him.     But  these  die,  get  shot  to  pieces,  or 
desert.     And  then  the  captain  knows  that  he  is  old,  has 
nothing  more  to  live  for,  that  his  own  time  has  come. 

Taps!     Sound  them  for  me  when  you  will! 

And  now  it  was  like  that  for  Nathan  Tyrone.  The 
last  of  his  phantom  command  had  faded  away.  He  also 
had  been  left  alone. 

That  was  what  had  happened  to  him  that  day  in 
Notre  Dame.  It  had  happened  to  him  even  earlier.  It 
had  happened  to  him  when  he  had  seen  Melissine  and 
Buckhannon  talking  together  to  each  other  in  the  Gar 
dens  of  the  Luxembourg.  Only  he  hadn't  known  it. 
But  he  had  known  it  when  he  saw  them  together  in 
Notre  Dame. 

That  day,  the  last  of  his  spirit-companions  "went 
West,"  beckoning  him  to  follow. 

127 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Before  that  he  had  still  been  poet  and  lover,  father 
and  bridegroom,  youth  and  old  man.  Suddenly,  all  these 
spirit-companions  had  winged  away — to  the  music  of 
the  Miserere  and  the  tolling  of  the  bell — and  he  had  been 
left  deserted.  His  heart  still  beat.  He  could  walk  about 
in  the  world.  His  eyes  could  see.  He  could  eat  and 
drink.  But  he  was  a  mere  imitation  of  a  live  man. 

All  this  was  the  way  he  put  it  to  himself.  He  had  that 
sort  of  mind.  Without  Melissine  there  was  no  life. 
There  was  no  necessity  for  life.  Once  there  had  been 
such  a  necessity.  This  was  no  longer  so.  He  had  been 
supplanted. 

Melissine  attended  him  with  a  purity  of  devotion  that 
was  perfect  and  beautiful.  Even  so,  Tyrone  could  see 
that  she  awaited  but  one  thing — the  day  that  would 
bring  her  Eugene  back  to  her. 

The  snows  of  Cinnamon  Street  melted.  The  sparrows 
twittered  in  the  eaves.  There  came  a  premonitory  wind 
out  of  the  south.  Winter  came  back  and  slashed  about 
in  March.  But  the  enemy  was  beaten.  Again  the  south 
wind  came  up  with  all  the  reserves  of  the  exhaustless 
tropics. 

There  was  grass  in  the  chapel-yard,  and  this  went 
green.  Here  and  there  a  crocus  appeared  in  the  grass. 
It  was  like  the  first  note  of  a  fairy  orchestra.  There 
was  an  old  rose-vine  against  the  side  of  No.  6.  This 
also  burst  into  floral  music. 

And  then,  one  day,  Buckhannon  himself  rushed  into 
the  street  like  the  impatient  lover  that  he  was.  He  ran 

128 


Heturn  of  'the  Lover 

up  the  steps  of  No.  6.  He  rapped  out  his  summons  on 
the  knocker  of  the  white  Colonial  door. 

The  birds  all  sang.  A  butterfly  drifted  about  to  his 
honor  like  an  attendant  airplane.  The  flowers  all 
cheered — that  is,  they  sent  up  their  perfume.  Any  one 
could  have  seen  that  this  was  a  great  event — that  this 
was  what  the  world  had  been  waiting  for. 

However,  there  was  a  longish  delay. 

And,  in  the  course  of  this  longish  delay,  there  arrived 
over  the  spring-time  heart  of  Buckhannon  a  touch  of  cold 
— somewhat  as  if  a  breath  of  winter  had  come  back  to 
wither  the  blossoms  a  bit,  burn  the  young  verdure  of  the 
trees. 

He  cast  a  look  back  of  him.  There  was  the  druggist 
across  the  street.  The  druggist  had  hinted  at  queer 
tales.  Down  there  by  the  chapel  fence  he  saw  the  police 
man,  Hitchcock,  and  Goodenough.  He  caught  a  whiff 
of  ghoulish  verse  and  dark  whispers.  This  was  the 
house  with  a  bad  name !  This  was  the  house  with  a  bad 
name! 

But  he  bethought  himself  of  Notre  Dame.  He  was 
shot  through  with  a  poignant  yearning  that  brought  its 
own  relief.  Notre  Dame  or  New  York,  they  were  one. 
They  spoke  with  the  same  voice.  To  this  voice  he 
listened:  complex,  a  little  lugubrious,  richly  chorded — • 
the  voice  of  the  ten  millions  and  the  instruments  of 
these.  For  bass  notes  of  the  organ  he  heard  the 
muffled  thunder  of  the  ceaseless  traffic,  he  heard  the 
hootings  and  the  meanings  of  the  harbor-craft,  the  sirens 
of  outgoing  liners  and  incoming  battleships;  but  most 

129 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

of  all  he  heard  the  plaintive  trebles  of  those  who  sweated 
and  strove,  whimpered  and  prayed. 

Then  he  was  back  in  Cinnamon  Street  again — his 
spirit  was.  Once  more  he  stood  there  in  the  presence 
of  old  No.  6.  This,  the  voice  of  New  York  and  of 
Notre  Dame,  became  the  voice  of  the  house  with  the  bad 
name.  Hear  it  moan!  Hear  it  appeal  to  the  judgment 
of  God !  Hear  it  say : 

"Grace!  Grace!  Since  I  have  given  you  this  one 
beautiful  thing,  this  girl  who  will  walk  at  your  side !" 

And  what  could  the  whole  world  say  but  that  ?  What 
could  any  human  life  say  but  that? 

The  door  opened. 

Buckhannon  would  have  sprung  forward  with  a  cry 
of  joy,  expecting  Melissine.  Instead,  it  was  Partridge 
who  opened  for  him.  Partridge  was  not  the  flute-player 
when  he  opened  the  Tyrone  door  to  receive  a  guest  for 
his  masters.  He  was  the  perfect  servant.  Even  so,  he 
couldn't  conceal  something  of  chill,  something  of  dread, 
something  of  mystery  about  him. 

Had  he  said :  "Pause,  young  man !  There  is  mystery 
here !"  his  impression  on  Buckhannon's  sensitive  imagina 
tion  would  have  been  about  the  same.  The  bourdon  of 
Notre  Dame  began  to  toll. 

Said  Buckhannon :  "Is  Miss — is  Mr.  Tyrone  at  home?" 

This  instead  of  the  burst  of  song,  figuratively  speak 
ing,  that  he  had  prepared.  Were  Notre  Dame  and 
Melissine  mere  hallucinations? 

There  was  a  mystery  about  this  house.  There  was 
no  delusion  about. that.  Goodenough  was  right — that 

130 


time  he  had  said  that  all  old  houses  and  all  old  men  are 
haunted.  He  was  literally  right. 

One  would  have  said  that  Partridge  himself  was 
haunted  right  now — he  the  perfect  servant,  the  butler 
par  excellence,  the  immaculate  gentleman  who'd  loved  a 
lady,  sir. 

Quite  by  accident,  Partridge  had  let  his  eyes  travel 
across  the  street.  It  was  a  habit  of  his,  that  rather  back 
ward  tilt  of  the  head  and  a  glance  into  the  distance. 
And  Partridge  was  old.  His  eyes  saw  rather  better  at 
a  distance  than  they  saw  things  close  by.  There  was 
the  drug-store  across  the  street.  The  drug-store  occu 
pied  the  street-floor  of  a  little  two-story  frame  building. 
There  were  living  quarters  on  the  upper  floor,  and 
almost  always  at  the  door  of  the  hallway  at  the  side  of 
the  drug-store  there  hung  a  card  announcing  that  up 
stairs  there  was  a  room  to  rent. 

To-day  the  card  wasn't  there. 

One  of  the  upper  windows  was  open. 

At  this  window  Partridge  had  seen  a  face — a  calm  and 
watchful  face — a  pale  face  with  dark,  dark  eyes  and 
red,  red  lips. 

It  all  happened  in  an  instant. 

"Mr.  Tyrone  is  ill,  sir,"  Partridge  heard  his  own 
gentle  and  well-modulated  voice  informing  the  visitor. 

He  heard  the  visitor  say:  "That  is  too  bad.  Will  you 
announce  me,  please?  I  am  Mr.  Buckhannon — Mr. 
Eugene  Buckhannon.  I  have  just  arrived  from  Paris. 
They  were  expecting  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!"  said  Partridge  aloud.     To  himself  he 


The  Hmise  With  a  Bad  Name 

said :  "The  Lord  is  our  shield."  And  again  aloud :  "They 
were  indeed  expecting  you,  sir." 

He  bowed  the  visitor  in. 

And  also  in  Buckhannon's  self  there  was  a  sort  of 
riot — an  election-riot;  two  rival  factions  in  there,  each 
clamoring  for  the  election  of  its  candidate.  And  one 
of  the  candidates  was  Courage.  And  the  other  candidate 
was  Fear. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    UNFINISHED    STORY 

THERE  was  a  drawing-room  at  the  left  of  the 
hall,  and  at  the  door  of  this  Melissine  met  him. 
She  was  dressed  as  the  original  model  of  the 
great  La  Tour  might  have  been  dressed  away  back  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  And  she  was  looking  at  him 
as  the  model  may  have  looked  at  the  painter — so  modest, 
so  demure,  so  filled  with  a  divine  and  mysterious  fire. 

Her  hair  was  brilliant  and  bright.  It  was  almost  an 
illumination  in  this  dusky  interior — a  pale  shimmer  of 
gold — "like  a  rose  upside-down,"  as  the  poet  said — a 
yellow  rose.  Her  throat  and  her  shoulders  were  bare 
except  for  the  semi-transparent  scarf  she  had  drawn 
about  them.  So  far  as  color  went,  she  was  a  symphony 
of  pale  yellows  and  pale  blues.  Her  pink  lips  were 
tightly  shut — so  tightly  shut  that  one  would  have  said 
she  was  having  difficulty  to  control  the  emotion  that 
made  her  young  breast  rise  and  fall  like  that  and  which 
gave  a  visible  vibrancy  to  her  whole  presence. 

But  there  was  no  controlling  the  look  in  her  dark-blue 
eyes.  Something  was  dawning  there — a  dawn  of  flame. 

And  just  the  sight  of  her,  and  the  flash  of  a  thought 
that  the  whole  universe  had  been  organized  since  the 

133 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

dawn  of  time  to  the  end  that  a  girl  like  this  should  be 
waiting  for  him,  Eugene  Buckhannon,  here  and  now, 
made  Buckhannon  feel  like  a  prince  in  a  fairy-tale.  A 
thrill  went  through  him  that  was  like  the  casting  off  of 
all  weight,  all  worry.  He  was  taller,  stronger,  more 
magnificent  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  He  stepped 
forward  with  a  gasp  of  thanksgiving. 

"Do  not  disturb  father  just  yet,"  said  Melissine. 

She  had  spoken  to  Partridge.  She  had  risen  to  the 
height  of  the  occasion.  She  was  perfectly  self-possessed. 

As  for  Partridge,  he  had  disappeared. 

And  there  were  the  two  of  them  together — Melissine 
and  Eugene  in  the  ancient  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
beautiful  room — with  the  selected  beauty  that  had  sur 
vived  for  a  century  or  so;  and  all  the  Tyrones  had  been 
sensitive  to  beauty.  It  was  an  eighteenth-century  room, 
paneled  in  old  French  walnut.  There  were  panels  either 
by  or  after  Boucher  on  the  wall.  There  was  a  Beauvais 
carpet  on  the  floor.  The  furniture,  of  the  period,  was  up 
holstered  with  Gobelin  tapestry. 

"Oh,  Melissine,"  breathed  Buckhannon. 

For  a  moment  he  had  paused.  He  was  artist  as  well 
as  lover.  Both  personalities  within  him  had  fused  and 
made  him  swoon  almost — as  if  he  had  been  in  Tyrone's 
garden  of  poppies. 

"Oh,  Eugene,"  she  answered  him,  playfully. 

"I  thought  I  had  been  with  you  always — since  you 
went  away,"  said  Buckhannon.  "I  have,  in  spirit.  But 
this  transcends  the  spirit." 

134 


The  Unfinished  Story 

She  said  nothing  now.  But  she  thrust  out  her  hands. 
Her  knees  may  have  failed  her,  somewhat. 

"You  are  so  wonderful,"  he  informed  her,  after  a 
long  interval.  "You  would  be  wonderful  anyway.  But 
you  are  so  wonderful  in  that  dress." 

"It  was  my  mother's,"  she  told  him,  stroking  his  head. 

She  was  enthroned  in  one  of  the  Gobelin  chairs.  He 
was  seated  on  the  Beauvais  carpet  at  her  feet. 

"What  a  pity  it  was,"  he  said,  "that  she  ever  died." 

"I  shall  never  believe  in  the  thing  that  people  call 
death,"  she  informed  him  gently.  "That  would  be  too 
terrible.  It  would  mean  that  soon  father  also  would 
be  dead." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  searching  for  her  meaning.  "I 
was  sorry  to  hear  that  he  was  ill,"  he  murmured. 

Her  blue  eyes  went  liquid,  but  she  smiled.  "By  and 
by,n  she  said,  "it  will  be  just  as  it  was  with  you  and 
me  when  we  said  good-by  to  each  other  over  there  in 
Notre  Dame.  He  will  be  in  one  place  and  I  in  another. 
But  I  don't  want  to  think  of  that  as  death.  I  don't  see 
why  people  should  call  that  death,  and  why  they  should 
dress  themselves  in  black.  See !  We  are  together  again. 
I  didn't  put  on  black  when  you  and  I  were  separated 
for  a  while." 

"You  are  altogether  beautiful,"  said  Buckhannon. 

"I  wear  these,"  Melissine  informed  him — and  she  in 
dicated  the  clothes  she  wore — "because  he  has  always 
wanted  to  see  me  like  this." 

"Can  you  blame  him  ?" 

335 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"But  now  he  has  given  me  permission  to  dress  myself 
as  other  girls  do." 

And  thus  the  conversation  drifted  from  death  to  dress 
as  lightly  as  a  butterfly  might  have  drifted  from  poppy 
to  rose,  from  rose  to  poppy. 

But  underneath  all  that  they  said  and  thought  was  the 
solid  earth  of  rocks  and  hidden  rivers.  They  loved  each 
other.  Life  was  dark  and  sometimes  mysterious,  but 
on  the  whole  life  was  very  beautiful.  And  also — 
Melissine  had  said — life  was  everlasting.  Everlasting 
though  it  be,  back  there  in  the  music-room  sat  Nathan 
Tyrone  at  the  threshold  of  the  brighter  chamber  men 
have  always  called  death. 

It  was  Melissine  herself  who  announced  Buckhannon's 
advent  to  her  father. 

"He  wishes  to  speak  to  you  alone,"  said  Melissine  to 
Buckhannon. 

Hastily,  tenderly,  she  allowed  Buckhannon  to  touch 
her  lips  with  his  own.  And  thus  anointed  and  purified, 
so  to  speak,  Buckhannon  came  into  the  presence  of; 
Melissine's  father. 

"I  had  been  wanting  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Tyrone. 

He  sat  nerveless  in  his  chair  in  front  of  the  fireplace. 
The  air  was  mild  but  there  was  a  fire  on  the  hearth. 
There  was  a  rug  over  the  sick  man's  knees.  It  smote 
Buckhannon  to  the  heart  to  think  that  in  a  presence 
like  this  Melissine  had  greeted  him  as  bravely  as  she 
had,  and  had  spoken  her  brave  words. 

"Yes,  sir,"  this  with  a  fervor. 
136 


The  Unfinished  Story 

"Melissine  has  told  me,"  said  Tyrone,  "that  you  and 
she  are  devoted." 

"There  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do " 

"She  tells  me  that  you  have  plighted  your  troth." 

"God  grant—" 

The  conversation  was  too  momentous  for  Buckhannon. 
He  could  only  falter  his  broken  sentences. 

"There  was  something" — Tyrone  also  was  speaking 
with  an  effort ;  his  breath  and  possibly  his  mind  were 
wavering — "there  was  something  that  I  felt  I  must  tell 
you — and  win  your  assent  before  I  could  approve." 

"If  it  concerns  me — or  my  family,"  Buckhannon  be 
gan. 

"It  concerns  Melissine,"  said  Tyrone. 

Buckhannon  remained  silent,  eager,  assenting  already 
in  his  heart.  There  was  nothing  in  his  heart  but  the 
vision  of  Melissine  as  he  had  seen  her  just  now,  and  the 
love  and  the  reverence  that  this  vision  inspired. 

But  it  wasn't  to  be  always  so. 

They  say  that  the  higher  a  man  goes  on  the  path  the 
more  killing  are  the  tests  he  has  to  endure.  It  was  some 
what  like  that  now. 

Tyrone  murmured  something  about  the  necessity  of 
telling  Buckhannon  more  about  Melissine,  else  he 
couldn't  die  in  peace.  Buckhannon  waited.  The  silence 
had  become  a  crisping  silence  now.  And  there  was 
Tyrone,  gasping  for  breath,  unable  for  the  present  to 
say  anything  more. 

Partridge  omniscient  to  his  master's  needs,  came  in. 

"I'll  come  back  to-morrow,"  Buckhannon  whispered. 
137 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  NIGHTMARE 

THERE  was  a  Swedish  lyric  that  Buckhannon  had 
run    across    somewhere.     It   was   one   that    well 
might   have    had   a   place   in    old    Goodenough's 
anthology  of  weird  verse.     It  went  like  this : 

I  in  a  vision 

Saw  my  lost  sweetheart, 

Fearlessly  toward  me 

I  saw  her  stray. 

So  pale!     I   thought  then; 

She  smiled  her  answer: 

"My  heart,  my  spirit, 

I've  kissed  away."  * 

Melissine's  vision  hovered  wan  about  Eugene  Buck 
hannon  all  that  night  as  he  tossed  sleepless  in  his  bed. 
Not  all  night,  for  late  into  the  night  he  had  walked, 
and  walked,  and  walked — from  Washington  Square  to 
Union  Square,  from  Union  Square  to  Madison  Square, 
from  Madison  Square  to  Central  Park,  from  Central 
Park  to  Riverside  Drive.  Even  so,  the  vision  had  kept 
him  company.  There  were  no  people  in  the  squares  or 

*  "Anders    Oesterling's    "Meeting    of    Phantoms"    (in    C.    W. 
Stork's   Anthology   of    Swedish  Lyrics   from   1750  to   1915). 

138 


The  Nightmare 

streets.  These  were  phantoms  whom  he  saw.  The 
realities  were  these  others. 

Melissine ! 

Nathan  Tyrone! 

Old  Partridge  of  the  Waxen  Face! 

Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  what  a  weird,  weird  per 
son  was  Melissine! — half  child,  half  woman! — a  thing 
of  exquisite  life,  dressed  with  the  habiliments  of  the 
dead! 

And  what  was  the  thing  that  her  father  had  started 
to  say  to  him  ?  Was  it  merely  that  his  daughter  was  an 
angel  and  that  he,  Buckhannon,  should  treat  her  as  such  ? 
This  would  have  been  the  natural  thing.  That's  what 
he  would  have  said  if  he,  Buckhannon,  had  been  her 
father ! 

But  if  this  were  the  case,  why  should  the  butler,  Part 
ridge,  have  acted  so  strangely  at  the  door?  Why  had  he 
started  like  that,  and  stared,  as  would  have  started  and 
stared  one  who  suddenly  realized  some  dreadful  truth, 
or  saw  something  dreadful  that  was  invisible  to  other 
men?  Was  Partridge  a  poisoner?  He  didn't  look  like 
one.  But  wasn't  it  possible  that  Partridge  had  poisoned 
his  master? — with  his  master's  consent? — for  some  good 
purpose? — because  of  some  benefit  that  this  would  bring 
to  Melissine? 

Melissine  was  one  to  inspire  men  to  heroic  sacrifices 
like  that.  Himself,  Buckhannon,  wouldn't  he  commit 
murder  or  suicide,  on  her  account? 

And  through  all  these  meditations,  reveries,  mad  flights 
of  fancy,  the  vision  of  Melissine  hovering  there — like  the 

139 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

pale  sweetheart  of  the  lyric  he  remembered.  Lost? 
Would  she  ever  be  lost  to  him?  His  heart  shuddered 
at  the  thought.  And  yet,  such  things  had  been. 

He  himself  was  like  a  lost  soul  in  a  haunted  forest. 
Through  this  figurative  forest  he  groped  his  way  to  a 
solid  oak-tree  he  could  trust,  and  about  this  he  flung  his 
arms ;  and  he  clung  to  it,  until  he  fell  into  at  least  some 
thing  that  resembled  sleep. 

The  oak-tree  was  Faith. 

He  loved  Melissine.  She  loved  him.  God  Himself 
had  given  her  to  him.  In  Notre  Dame,  God  had  given 

her  him. 

/ 

But  Buckhannon  knocked  softly  nevertheless  when  he 
came  to  the  door  of  the  old  house  in  Cinnamon  Street  on 
the  following  afternoon.  He  had  forced  himself  to 
wait  until  afternoon  because  he  had  so  ardently  wished 
to  come  at  daybreak.  He  believed  in  discipline. 

Softly  the  door  was  opened,  and  there  stood  Par 
tridge.  It  struck  Buckhannon  that  there  was  a  greater 
air  of  mystery  about  Partridge  than  ever.  Why? 

Buckhannon  hesitated.  He  swallowed.  There  was  a 
little  catch  in  his  voice  that  he  didn't  like  as  he  asked: 

"May  I  see  him?" 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  Partridge  faintly. 

And  Partridge  led  Buckhannon  into  the  music-room, 
whither  Buckhannon  had  gone  the  day  before. 

But  the  room  was  changed.  The  fireplace  was  dark 
and  hidden  by  a  screen.  From  above  it  the  portrait  that 
so  resembled  a  portrait  of  Melissine  looked  down 

140 


The  Nightmare 

through  a  sparkling  haze  of  candlelight.  It  was  curious 
that  so  many  candles  should  have  been  lit  in  mid- 
afternoon. 

The  light  of  them  constituted  a  bedazzlement. 

Buckhannon  heard  a  ghostly  whisper:  "He  did  not 
know!  He  did  not  know!"  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
old  butler. 

"Know  what?"  Buckhannon  asked. 

There  was  no  reply. 

Then  Buckhannon  saw  that  the  candles  stood  at  the 
head  and  the  foot  of  a  sort  of  lofty  couch  and  that  on 
this  couch  lay  the  man  he  had  come  to  see. 

"He  is  dead !"  gasped  Buckhannon. 

All  Partridge  could  do  was  to  bow  his  head.  Part 
ridge  was  strangled.  Partridge  was  inarticulate. 

Not  so  Melissine. 

When  Melissine  came  in,  it  was  almost  as  if  Buck 
hannon  was  seeing  again  his  phantoms  of  the  night.  For 
she  was  pale.  But  she  was  dressed  with  as  much  light 
ness  and  beauty  as  she  had  shown  the  day  before.  Had 
she  read  the  look  in  Buckhannon's  eyes?  If  she  had,  she 
had  answered  it : 

"This  is  the  way  he  would  harve  had  me  be,"  she 
whispered. 

Buckhannon  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
He  was  as  strangled  and  inarticulate  now  as  Partridge 
was.  Then,  after  a  while  Melissine  spoke  again.  Her 
voice  had  taken  a  childish  quality  because  of  its  tendency 
to  break.  But  she  was  as  brave  as  a  little  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

141 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

It  was  as  if  she  were  fighting  the  fight  alone  and  for 
all  of  them : 

"He's  merely  gone  away,"  she  said.  "He's  merely 
gone  where  some  day  all  of  us  will  join  him.  It  will  be 
beautiful  there.  He  will  love  it.  He  will  love  it  better 
than  France."  Each  sentence  had  its  little  gasp,  its  ris 
ing  accent.  "And  why  should  we  have  faith,"  she  quer 
ied  gently,  "if  we  can't  have  it  at  a  time  like  this?" 

Buckhannon  looked  into  her  eyes.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  two  tears  trickled  out.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  held  her  there. 

The  neighbors  must  have  been  watching,  watching. 
This  night  they  had  seen  No.  6  become  a  center  of  sin 
ister  excitement.  They  had  seen  a  sable  wagon  come 
and  go.  They  had  seen  men  dressed  in  black  enter  the 
house  and  go  away  again.  Was  somebody  sick?  Was 
somebody  dead?  One  would  have  thought  so — and  yet 
there  was  no  badge  of  mourning  on  the  door. 

They  saw  no  sign  of  mourning  about  the  house  what 
soever  until  some  time  after  they  had  seen  the  young 
man  (Buckhannon)  go  into  the  house.  But  then  they 
were  rewarded. 

It  was  just  as  if  here,  in  front  of  their  eyes,  was 
"happening  the  thing  they  had  waited  for  all  these  years. 

A  woman  had  crossed  the  street  from  the  direction  of, 
the  druggist's  shop.  She  was  the  Woman  in  Black. 
She  was  veiled  in  black.  But  they  guessed  that  she  was 
beautiful — from  her  graceful  lines  and  her  slightly  sinu 
ous  walk  as  she  mounted  the  stoop  of  No.  6  and  lifted 
the  knocker. 

142 


BUCKHANNON  had  a  highly  intelligent  eye.  It 
was  not  only  the  well-trained  physical  eye  of  his 
profession.  It  was  the  sympathetic  eye  of  the  inter 
preter  back  of  this  physical  eye — the  eye  of  the  dreamer 
and  the  imaginer.  It  was  this  eye,  fine  and  complex, 
with  which  he  had  observed  Partridge  that  first  time 
Partridge  had  opened  the  door  for  him.  It  was  the  eye 
with  which  he  now  observed  not  Partridge  only,  but  the 
Woman  in  Black,  and  Melissine. 

Buckhannon  and  Melissine  had  come  into  the-  hall  on 
their  way  to  the  drawing-room.  They  lingered  when 
they  heard  the  rap  on  the  door.  Partridge  had  wafted 
past  them  on  his  way  to  open. 

When  the  Woman  in  Black  came  in  it  was  as  if,  for 
the  first  time,  death  had  entered. 

This  figure  was  like  an  incarnation  of  death.  She  was 
a  personification  of  mourning,  at  any  rate — a  character 
out  of  one  of  those  old  powerful  pictures  by  Dore.  It 
rather  heightened  the  effect  that  her  bearing  and  her 
lines  were  those  of  youth,  not  age.  All  the  more  it 
made  her  the  Dark  Angel.  It  was  just  as  if  Partridge 
had  opened  the  door  and  then  the  Dark  Angel  had 
come  in. 

143 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

And  there  wa%  something  about  the  appearance  of 
Partridge  to  indicate  that  this  was  the  way  he  felt  about 
it,  too.  There  was  a  touch  of  terror  about  Partridge, 
certainly  of  distress. 

Or  was  this  merely  something  that  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  room  back  there,  where  his  master 
lay? 

Buckhannon  was  not  to  be  left  long  in  doubt. 

The  strange  visitor  had  entered  with  an  indefinable 
gust  of  haste  and  satisfaction.  It  was  just  as  if  she 
had  said:  "At  last!  At  last!" — had  said  this  with  an 
inaudible  voice  that  none  the  less  was  capable  of  shaking 
the  souls  of  all  of  them.  But  once  inside  the  door  and 
the  door  closed  behind  her,  she  paused. 

Buckhannon  heard  her  whisper:  "You  know  who  I 
am." 

It  wasn't  a  whisper  precisely,  but  her  voice  had  been 
very  soft.  She  had  spoken  to  Partridge.  Her  words 
had  carried  with  them  a  suggestion  of  authority. 

Partridge  wavered.     She  waited. 

Partridge  said:  "Yes,  madam." 

In  the  meantime  the  woman  had  looked  in  Buckhan- 
non's  direction — had  looked  at  him  and  Melissine.  Buck- 
liannon  felt  a  slight  tremor  at  his  side ;  he  felt  Melissine's 
light  hand  creep  into  the  hollow  of  his  arm  as  if  she 
were  seeking  for  protection. 

"I'd  protect  you,  heart  and  soul,  against  all  the  fiends 
of  hell,"  Buckhannon  silently  assured  the  owner  of  the 
hand. 

There  was  an  uncanniness  about  it — that  veiled 

144 


The  Other  Mourner 

scrutiny  of  the  unknown.  The  veil  was  black.  The  vis 
itor's  face  was  invisible  through  it,  but  her  eyes  glowed, 
only  dimly  discernible. 

"Introduce  me,"  the  visitor  had  next  demanded. 

"You  have  come  to  see  Mr.  Tyrone,"  quavered  Part 
ridge.  "You  know  of  the  misfortune." 

It  was  manifest  to  Buckhannon  that  Partridge  was 
seeking  time — manifest  that  Partridge  was  up  against  a 
situation  that  was  all  dark  confusion  for  him.  Buck 
hannon  felt  sorry  for  the  old  man.  And  his  heart  fairly 
yearned  over  Melissine.  All  the  same,  this  was  a  con 
tinuation  of  his  nightmare.  Not  that  there  was  any 
thing  horrible  about  it.  There  had  been  nothing  hor 
rible  about  the  nightmare  itself.  It  had  been  just  a 
vague  drift  of  doubts  and  melancholies.  That  was  all. 
Had  there  been  bristles  on  his  spine,  as  there  doubtless 
had  been  on  the  spine  of  some  remote  ancestor,  these 
bristles  would  have  been  drawn  erect. 

"Introduce  me,"  the  woman  ordered  softly,  but  with 
a  note  of  finality. 

And  thereupon  she  threw  back  her  veil.- 

It  was  Buckhannon's  turn  to  start.  The  sight  of  the 
woman's  face  recalled  that  other  face  he  had  seen — fhe 
woman  who  had  kissed  him  at  the  side  of  the  chapel 
fence.  Buckhannon  felt  an  ache  at  his  solar-plexus — 
there  where  some  say  is  the  real  center  of  the  intellect — 
and  this  pain  of  his  was  intellectual  as  much  as  it  was 
physical.  There  could  be  no  mistake.  This  was  she. 
Her  face  had  become  the  face  of  a  hag  in  his  dreams, 
and  yet  it  was  beautiful. 

145 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Her  face  was  very  pale.  It  wasn't  a  dead  white. 
She  had  a  fine  complexion,  but  all  of  the  one  tone — ivory 
white.  This  accentuated  the  rest  of  her  coloring — her 
dark  red  hair,  her  bright  red  lips,  and  her  brilliant  large 
eyes  which  were  almost  black.  It  wouldn't  have  taken 
a  trained  observer  to  decide  that  her  eyes  were  penciled 
and  that  her  lips  had  likewise  been  sagaciously  enhanced. 

But  only  a  trained  observer  would  have  noted  per 
haps  that  mixture  of  boldness  and  caution  she  radiated 
about  her.  It  was  something  to  remind  one  of  a  power 
ful  wild  animal,  furtive  and  alert,  which  finds  itself  in 
the  midst  of  strange  surroundings,  yet  still  in  a  situation 
where  it  has  long  wanted  to  be. 

But  also  Melissine  had  recognized  her.  This  was  the 
strange  woman  who  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  store. 
Perhaps  neither  had  Melissine  been  wholly  without  her 
haunt  since  then. 

Buckhannon  and  Melissine  had  not  been  standing  still. 
They  had  advanced  somewhat.  All  that  had  transpired 
thus  far  had  developed  deftly,  without  apparent  let  or 
lapse  of  time. 

"Madame " 

Partridge  had  quavered  this. 

The  visitor  turned  from  him  with  a  certain  contempt. 
She  had  again  cast  her  eyes  on  Buckhannon  and  Melis 
sine.  They  came  back  to  Buckhannon.  For  what 
seemed  to  him  like  a  long,  long  time,  the  woman  was 
looking  at  him  and  he  was  looking  at  her.  In  her  turn 
she  had  given  a  little  gasp. 

"An  unfortunate — come  to  atone,"  said  Buckhannon 
146 


The  Other  Mourner 

to  himself;  and  he  felt  a  quiver  of  pity.  This  may  have 
revealed  itself  in  his  look. 

Anyway,  the  woman  rewarded  him  with  a  smile.  The 
smile  was  like  the  flash  of  recognition  a  wild  animal 
would  have  shown — veiled  and  enigmatic. 

Whereupon  Buckhannon's  pity  became  a  vague  little 
whiff  of  terror.  It  was  a  terror  compounded  of  all 
the  things  he  had  heard,  or  which  had  reached  him  by 
way  of  suggestion — from  the  druggist,  from  Hickcock, 
the  policeman,  and  Goodenough,  the  coachman. 

Buckhannon  had  given  a  hasty  glance  at  Melissine. 
There  was  an  impulse  in  his  mind  to  tell  Melissine  not  to 
worry,  not  to  be  frightened.  But  Melissine  herself  was 
looking  at  the  strange  woman  with  a  blossoming 
sympathy. 

It  was  evident  that  Melissine,  moreover,  was  conscious 
of  her  duties  as  hostess. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  father  ?"  Melissine  inquired  gently, 
stepping  forward. 

The  visitor  smiled  at  Melissine. 

She  had  paused  just  long  enough  to  give  a  look  at 
Partridge.  To  any  one  who  would  have  cared  to  in 
terpret,  it  was  a  look  that  said:  "And  that's  enough  for 
you,  servant!" 

She  approached  Melissine  with  her  swift  and  sinuous 
movement,  shaking  out  as  she  did  so  a  perfume  of  the 
Lord  knows  what  from  her  sable  garments — something 
musky  and  Oriental.  She  put  her  arm  around  Melis 
sine — Buckhannon  drawing  back  respectfully,  not  to  say 

147 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

distrustfully,  to  give  her  room — and  she  planted  her  red 
lips  to  Melissine's  white  temple. 

"I  am  Mme.  Jenesco,"  she  announced  in  her  warm, 
soft  voice.  "But  you  may  call  me  Belle.  I  am  sure 
that  we  are  going  to  love  each  other." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

OF   FLOWERS   AND    SPECTERS 

PARTRIDGE  had  remained  near  the  door  where 
the  woman  had  left  him.  Partridge  was  making 
a  pretense  that  the  fastening  of  the  door  was  out 
of  order.  But  when  Buckhannon  came  up  and  spoke 
to  the  old  man,  Partridge  turned  and  reeled  slightly  until 
his  back  was  against  the  door.  He  looked  as  if  he  needed 
the  support.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  being  strangled 
by  a  set  of  invisible  fingers. 

Mme.  Jenesco  and  Melissine  were  for  the  moment  out 
of  hearing.  They  had  gone  into  the  music-room. 

"Who  is  she?"  Buckhannon  demanded. 

"She  is  Mme.  Jenesco,"  Partridge  gasped. 

"1  know  that,"  said  Buckhannon  steadily.  "I  was  just 
introduced  to  her."  He  looked  at  his  hand,  as  if  Mme. 
Jenesco's  fingers  might  have  left  their  trace  there.  His 
fingers  were  still  consciou^  of  the  contact.  He  raised 
his  hand  nearer  his  face.  The  perfume  also  lingered. 

"She  was  married,  I  believe,  to  a  M.  Jenesco,"  said 
Partridge.  "A  Rumanian,  sir,  if  I  remember  correctly." 

Buckhannon  put  out  his  hands  and  let  them  rest  lightly 
on  the  old  man's  shoulders.  Buckhannon  had  the  feel 
ing  in  his  arms  that  he  could  have  grappled  with  a  giant 

149 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

— that  he  would  have  grappled  with  anything  that  he 
could  see  or  get  hold  of.  But  his  hands  were  gentle. 
Partridge  was  fragile,  he  was  in  misery;  and  Buckhan- 
non  knew  by  this  time  how  Melissine  loved  him. 

"I  want  you  to  understand  now  and  always,"  Buck- 
hannon  said,  "that  I  am  your  friend." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"There  seems  to  be  some  sort  of  a  mystery  here." 

It  was  a  phrase  that  had  become  familiar  in  his 
thought,  but  which  never  before  had  he  spoken  aloud. 
The  look  that  Partridge  returned  to  him  was  a  con 
firmation. 

"If  there  is  anything  that  concerns  your  welfare  or 
the  welfare  of  Miss  Tyrone,"  Buckhannon  hurried  on, 
"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  it  is.  I  want  you  to  let  me 
help  you." 

"I  dare  not!" 

"Dare  not?" 

"I  dare  not !    Do  not  ask  me,  sir." 

"Why  should  you  try  to  hide  it?  I'm  your  friend. 
Can't  you  trust  me?  God  knows  I'm  asking  a  greater 
trust  from  Melissine !" 

"God  bless  you,  sir!" 

"Tell  me,"  Buckhannon  pleaded. 

"I — I  never  thought,  sir — that  it  would  come  to  this," 
said  Partridge. 

And  any  one  could  have  told  that  Partridge  was  not 
confronting  the  immediate  incident  so  much  as  he  was 
regarding  the  whole  vast  landscape  of  the  past. 

"Well,  what  has  this  woman  to  do  with  it?" 


Of  Flowers  and  Specters 

"I  must  ask  you  to  be  patient.  So  would  Mr.  Tyrone 
have  wished." 

"She's  a  bad  woman." 

"She  looks  it — I  have  suspected " 

"Have  her  thrown  out  of  the  house,"  said  Buckhan- 
non,  whose  only  thought  was  to  save  Melissine  from  con 
tamination.  An  electric  needle  was  plucking  at  his  mind. 
It  buzzed  and  burnt  with  George  Sterling's  line: 

Smiles  bloodily  against  the  leprous  moon ! 

.  .  .  sated  at  her  feast, 

Smiles  bloodily  against  the  leprous  moon  .  .  . 

"No !     No !"  cried  Partridge. 

"Why  not?" 

"I — we  can  arrange — " 

"By  God,"  said  Buckhannon,  and  he  was  declaring 
this  to  himself  as  much  as  he  was  to  Partridge,  "before 
I  allow  anything  or  any  one  to  touch  Melissine's  happi 
ness "  He  stopped. 

When  men  say  something  to  some  one  else,  they  often 
listen  to  themselves.  Buckhannon  was  now  haunted  by 
the  thought  that  what  he  said  had  sounded  false  even 
to  his  own  ears.  He  knew  that,  while  he  started  to  make 
his  declaration,  and  was  listening  to  it,  he  was  also  hear 
ing  the  voice  of  Tyrone — Tyrone  trying  to  tell  him 
something;  and  now  Tyrone  was  dead;  and  he,  Buck 
hannon,  was  in  .a  panic  of  doubt. 

In  his  own  extremity,  Partridge  was  casting  about 
hither  and  yon,  seeking  for  something  that  he  could 
cling  to.  Curiously  enough  it  was  something  he  had 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

read  a  long  time  ago.  He  controlled  himself.  He  was 
getting  back  his  strength.  His  mild  eyes  met  Buckhan- 
non's  squarely. 

"Let  us  not  strive,"  he  said.    "Let  us  be  gentle." 

"But  this—"  Buckhannon  began.  "Tell  me:  Is  it 
anything  that  impinges  on  the  honor  of  Melissine?" 

"She  need  never  know." 

"She  need  never  know  what?" 

"If  you  lack  faith — if  you  are  afraid,"  said  Partridge, 
"it  were  better  that  you  go." 

"I'll  not  go,"  said  Buckhannon.  "I'll  never  go  but 
that  she  goes  with  me." 

"God  bless  you,  sir.  Pardon  me,  but — we'll  need  you. 
The  Lord  has  sent  you  in  this  the  hour  of  our  need." 

Partridge  had  permitted  himself  no  sleep  since  twenty- 
four  hours  at  least.  Old  men  require  less  sleep  than 
young  ones  do.  Still,  he  was  much  wrought  up.  He 
wasn't  very  robust. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  queried  Buckhannon, 
after  an  interval. 

"Should  you  care  to,  sir,  I  would  suggest  that  you  take 
Miss  Tyrone  into  the  garden  for  a  breath  of  air.  She 
needs  it.  She  wouldn't  go  alone.  She  would  go  with 
you." 

"And  her!" 

It  was  a  reference  to  the  Woman  in  Black. 

Partridge  drew  himself  up.  "Leave  her  to  me,  sir. 
I  shall  try  to  do  whatever  is  best." 

There  was  the  gate  between  the  Tyrone  property  and 
the  yard  of  the  abandoned  chapel.  Through  this  gate 

152 


Of  Flowers  and  Specters 

Melissine  and  Buckhannon  made  their  way.  The  early 
spring  twilight  was  in  the  air,  also  a  smell  of  grass  and 
trees  and  flowers.  The  hour  and  the  place  were  such 
as  Buckhannon  had  yearned  for  many  and  many  a 
time  while  he  was  still  in  Paris  and  Melissine  was  in 
New  York.  Thus  had  he  walked  with  her  in  his  thought, 
and  he  had  been  certain  that  not  heaven  itself  could  have 
been  otherwise. 

Yet  here  he  was,  miserable,  miserable  and  haunted! 

He  turned  to  Melissine.  He  concealed  all  that  he 
could  of  the  doubt  that  was  assailing  him. 

"Who  was  that  woman?"  he  asked. 

"I  never  saw  her  before  in  my  life,  except  once," 
Melissine  replied.  She  told  of  the  meeting  in  the  store. 
"She  is  a  curious  creature.  It  is  very  strange." 

"What  is  very  strange?" 

"She  said  that  she  was  glad  that  at  last  we  had  been 
brought  together.  She  spoke  as  if  she  were  intending 
to  come  here  to  live.  I  think  that  it  was  about  this  she 
wanted  to  speak  to  Partridge." 

Partridge  was  in  there  speaking  to  her  now. 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Buckhannon.  "It  will  turn  out 
all  right." 

"But  oh,"  cried  Melissine;  "I  do  wish  I  knew  what  it 
was  all  about !" 

Buckhannon  held  his  peace.  It  would  have  to  be  as 
Partridge  said.  He  would  have  to  be  patient.  But  he 
was  sad. 

Melissine,  feeling  the  sadness  that  was  upon  him, 
paused — and  made  him  pause,  with  a  gentle  pressure  on 

IS3 


The  House  With  a  Ttad  Name 

his  arm — and  she  held  up  a  rose  that  he  might  smell 
it.  But  as  Buckhannon  inhaled  the  fragrance  of  the 
flower  and  closed  his  eyes  with  a  hope  of  shutting  out 
everything  else,  all  that  he  could  think  of  was  Nathan 
Tyrone,  and  Partridge,  and  the  Woman  in  Black,  and 
their  ghostly  confrontation. 

The  shadows  deepened.  The  candlelight  glimmered 
through  the  windows  of  the  music-room.  There  for  a 
time  Melissine  and  Buckhannon  could  hear  a  murmur 
of  voices — as  if  the  three  who  were  in  there  arranged 
some  new  edict  of  fate. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  DARK   CLAIMANT 

IT  was  a  ghostly  confrontation,  indeed,  that  which 
was  taking  place  now  in  old  No.  6  Cinnamon  Street. 
For  a  time  Mme.  Jenesco  and  Partridge  had  lingered 
there  in  the  silent  music-room  with  Nathan  Tyrone — 
and  all  the  other  Tyrones  looking  down  from  the  walls. 

"I  hope,"  said  Partridge,  "that  you  said  nothing  to 
Miss  Tyrone." 

For  a  while  longer  the  visitor  continued  to  look  at 
the  pictures  on  the  wall.  She  looked  at  them  with  a 
certain  satisfaction.  From  her  bearing  it  might  have 
been  doubtful  whether  she  had  heard  Partridge  at  all. 

"Not,  of  course,"  Partridge  pursued,  "that  there  was 
anything  you  could  have  said — anything  to  disturb  hen 
peace  of  mind,  I  mean." 

He  was  stumbling.  The  woman  turned  and  surveyed 
him  with  a  degree  of  amused  contempt.  She  took  her 
time  about  her  survey.  But  if  she  intended  to  squelch 
Partridge,  reduce  him  to  a  further  confusion,  she  missed 
her  guess.  Partridge  was  gradually  getting  still  more 
of  his  strength  back,  reassuming  the  poise  that  had  be 
come  native  to  him  during  his  years  of  service. 

"Your  coming  here,"  he  reminded  her,  "was  very  ir 
regular." 

155 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

She  raised  a  shoulder  slightly.     She  said:  "Indeed!" 

"I  have  always  counseled  you  not  to  come  here," 
Partridge  continued  softly.  Partridge  was  stooped,  but 
this  was  the  stoop  of  age  rather  than  of  any  humility 
supposed  to  attach  to  his  station.  His  face  and  his 
voice  were  dignified. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  the  woman  retorted  slowly,  "that  you 
haven't  taken  a  good  deal  upon  yourself." 

"I  was  constrained  to,"  Partridge  informed  her.  "Mr. 
Tyrone  honored  me  with  his  confidence  in  so  many  ways. 
I  dare  say  I  did  not  misjudge  his  own  wishes  in  the 
matter." 

The  woman  reflected.  She  had  the  air  of  one  who 
listens  to  the  mind  rather  than  the  heart.  But  she  took 
a  handkerchief,  in  a  leisurely  way,  from  the  black  bag 
she  carried.  The  handkerchief  had  a  black  border.  With 
this  handkerchief  she  touched  her  eyes. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  showing  yourself  so  heart 
less,"  she  announced. 

Partridge  also  meditated,  a  trifle  wonderstruck. 

"If  I  have  seemed  heartless,"  he  said,  "I  beg  of  you 
to  accept  my  apology.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  heart 
less.  Anything  that  I  have  said  was  merely  dictated  by 
my  devotion  to  Mr.  Tyrone  and  to  Miss  Tyrone.  He  had 
never  informed  her  of  his  difference  with  his  father. 
At  least,  I  am  quite  certain  that  he  never  told  her  -of 
the  causes  of  that  difference.  Miss  Tyrone  has  an  in 
quiring  mind.  Your  coming  here  now,  and  your  as 
sumption — again  I  shall  have  to  ask  your  pardon  if  what 

156 


The  Dark  Claimant 

I  say  should  wound  you — your  assumption  of  friend 
ship — not  to  say  familiarity " 

"That's  enough!"  the  woman  broke  in  upon  him. 
"You've  said  quite  enough!" 

There  was  no  appearance  of  grief  about  her,  real  or 
assumed.  There  was  something  beginning  to  simmer  in 
side  of  her — something  that  may  have  been  latent  when 
she  came  here.  She  jammed  her  mourning  handkerchief 
into  her  bag. 

"True,"  said  Partridge.  "We  shall  consider  the  in 
terview  at  an  end." 

Mme.  Jenesco  didn't  move,  except  for  the  sort  of 
tense  vibrancy  about  her.  She  looked  at  Partridge. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  softly,  "I  have  decided  to  re 
main — this  time  for  good." 

"I  am  getting  a  little  old,"  said  Partridge.  "My  hear 
ing  is  not  what  it  should  be.  I  must  have  misunder 
stood." 

"You  heard  what  I  said." 

"And  I  beg  to  remind  you  that  you  heard  what  I  said. 
I  desire  that  we  bring  this  interview  to  a  close  before 
Miss  Tyrone  returns.  I  shall  further  suggest,  finally, 
that  you  do  not  return  here  again." 

The  sultriness  about  the  woman  increased,  but  out 
wardly  she  maintained  a  perfect  control  of  herself — she 
did  except  for  the  purring  note  that  came  into  her  voice. 
There  was  a  purr  about  the  entirety  of  her.  She  sug 
gested  a  panther — a  black  panther — in  the  presence  of 
some  new  but  fascinating  prey. 

157 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Do  you  still  think  that  you  are  expressing  Mr.  Ty 
rone's  wishes  when  you  talk  to  me  like  that?" 

"Not  only  his,  madam,"  said  Partridge  quietly,  "but 
also  Mr.  Buckhannon's — Miss  Tyrone's  affianced  hus 
band."  Partridge  was  happier  when  he  could  ascribe 
authority  to  some  one  else. 

It  took  Belle  several  seconds  to  catch  this  allusion. 

"Oh,"  she  said;  "you  mean  him!"  She  laughed.  "I 
should  worry  about  him!  Why,  you'll  find  that  he's  one 
of  the  best  friends  I've  got."  She  meditated  the  coup, 
like  a  cat  playing  with  a  mouse.  "We  think  so  much 
of  each  other  that  he  kissed  ine — the  very  first  time 
we  met." 

Partridge  believed  that  she  was  lying,  but  tears  came 
into  his  eyes.  This  was  a  blow  aimed  not  at  him  but  at 
Melissine.  It  gave  him  some  hint  of  what  might  follow. 

"But  he's  a  nice  boy,"  said  Belle.  "He's  no  worse 
than  any  other  man — than  Mr.  Tyrone  was  in  his  rela 
tions  with  my  mother." 

There  followed  another  silence  while  Partridge  stood 
there — now  at  a  loss  and  with  his  mouth  open  trying  to 
imagine  what  she  meant,  trying  to  stifle  his  oWn  mis 
givings,  and  while  Mme.  Jenesco  looked  at  him  from 
her  side  of  the  room  with  her  red-lipped  smile. 

"Since  you  refer,"  said  Partridge,  softly,  "to  your  un 
fortunate  mother^ " 

"Unfortunate's  the  word !" 

"It  is  the  word.  God  pity  you  that  you  should  have 
forced  me  to  refer  to  her  as  such.  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  forgotten  all  that  he  did — for  her — and  you?" 

158 


The  Dark  Claimant 

Belle  still  smiled  at  him.  Her  lips  were  parted  now, 
and  her  breast  was  rising  and  falling  as  if  she  were  a 
little  short  of  breath. 

"I  remember,"  she  said.  "I  was  fifteen  years  old 
when  my  mother  died.  Brought  up  the  way  I  was  a 
girl  knows  a  lot — and  can  guess  a  lot — by  the  time  that 
she's  fifteen.  I  wasn't  brought  up  like  that  little  blonde, 
out  there.  I  suppose  you  know  that,  too,  don't  you?" 

"I  request  you  to  leave  the  house." 

"You  can  save  your  stage  stuff,"  she  mocked  him. 
"You'll  need  all  of  it  a  little  later."  Her  voice  took  on 
an  ugly  drawl.  "Say!  What  do  you  think  I  am,  any 
way?  Do  you  think  that  just  because  he" — she  tossed 
her  head  to  indicate  Nathan  Tyrone  lying  there — "put 
something  over  on  my  mother  that  you  can  keep  on  put 
ting  the  same  stuff  over  on  me?  Why,  you're  nothing 
but  a  servant !  You're  nothing  but  a  poor  old  man  I 
I  was  feeling  sorry  for  you.  I  came  here  to-day  with 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world.  What  do  you  mean 
by  insulting  my  mother's  memory  just  because  she  was 
unfortunate?" 

"God  forbid!"  cried  Partridge.  "And  this  in  hit 
presence !" 

"And  where  else?"  Mme.  Jenesco  demanded,  with  a 
slow  lash  of  passion.  "Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean !" 

"You  lie!" 

Partridge  raised  a  groping  hand.  He  forgot  what 
he  had  raised  it  for.  He  let  it  fall  again. 

"You  lie,"  the  woman  repeated,  "and  you  know  you 
159 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

lie.  You've  known  it  all  along.  You  knew  it  as  well 
as  he  knew  it  himself — and  you  stand  there  ready  to  deny 
it.  Don't  you  dare  to  deny  it." 

Partridge's  voice  came  in  a  gasp : 

"Deny  what?" 

"That  Nathan  Tyrone  was  my  father!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  BID   FOR   CHARITY 

PERHAPS  it  was  Melissine's  calendar  that  Par 
tridge  saw  through  his  closed  eyes.  Perhaps  it 
was  that  very  quotation  that  he  had  recalled  a 
little  earlier  in  the  hall  when  he  was  talking  to  Buck- 
hannon.  That  sort  of  an  expression  came  into  his  face : 

"And  the  servant  of  the  Lord  must  not  strive;  but  be 
gentle  unto  all  men,  apt  to  teach,  patient." 

He  would  cease  to  strive.  He  was  going  to  be  gentle 
and  patient.  He  was  going  to  try  to  teach.  The  woman 
watched  his  change  of  expression.  Something  of  her 
own  passion  diminished. 

"You  started  me,"  she  said,  as  if  almost  in  apology. 
"I'm  just  as  eager  to  be  a  lady  as  any  one.  God  knows 
I'm  tired  enough  of  being  the  other  thing." 

It  was  a  sincere  note.  It  sufficed  to  cause  Partridge 
to  look  at  her  again — with  a  shade  of  fresh  courage. 

"I  trust  that  you  will  believe,"  he  said,  still  shakily, 
"that  I  have  acted  and  spoken,  hastily  perhaps,  but  with 
out  malice.  Your  mother  was  brought  to  this  house  by 
Mr.  Tyrone  when  she  was  sick  and  friendless.  He  was 
chivalrous.  He  was  her  friend." 

The  woman  cut  in  on  him.  But  one  would  have  said 

161 


The  House  With  a  'Bad  Name 

that  the  bitterness  in  her  tone  was  drawn  from  the  bit 
terness  of  her  own  experience. 

"Bah!"  she  exclaimed.    "Men  always  say  that  I" 

But  Partridge  persisted — patient,  eager  to  teach. 

"You  could  not  have  known  Mr.  Tyrone,"  he  said 
gently,  "thus  to  classify  him  with  other  men — not  in  re 
spect  to  his  relations  with  women.  He  was  a  man  of 
the  purest  life." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  knew  him  from  the  time  he  was  born.  I  knew 
him — you  might  say  almost — long  before  he  was  born.  I 
knew  his  grandfather.  He  and  I  were  together  with 
General  Grant.  I  was  with  his  father  many  years.  They 
were  like  that.  Oh,  they  were  too  proud  to  have  sullied 
themselves !" 

Again  the  woman  interrupted  him.  She  fortified  her 
self  with  a  declaration. 

"I'm  not  saying  anything  against  him.  I'm  not  say 
ing  that  he  wasn't  better  than  most  men.  But  he  was 
a  man.  I  love  him.  I  honor  him " 

"I  knew," — sobbed  Partridge — "knew  that  you  would 
see  the  light." 

" — honor  him,"  the  woman  pursued,  disregarding  the 
interruption,  "as  a  daughter  should." 

Partridge  collapsed. 

"If  it's  a  matter  of  money "  he  faltered. 

The  woman  stuck  to  her  line  of  argument.  "He  was 
a  man  like  any  other  man,  though,  when  it  came  to  that," 
she  persisted.  "You'll  admit  yourself  that  my  mother 
was  young  and  that  she  was  beautiful." 

162 


A  Bid  for  Chanty 

"I  do  admit  it,"  said  Partridge,  with  a  gust  of  ferVof. 
"It  was  her  beauty  that  moved  him  to  commit  this  act 
of  folly.  He  always  loved  beauty  so!  He  could  never 
love  anything  ugly,  either  in  word,  or  thought,  or  action." 

"Then  what  are  you  trying  for  to  make  him  out  as 
the  other  kind  ?" 

"I  am  not." 

"You  are.  He  brought  her  here  to  this  house,  didn't 
he?  You  say  so  yourself  that  he  did.  And  he  kept  her 
here,  didn't  he?  You  admit  that,  too.  And  I  suppose 
that  you  expect  me  to  believe,  and  that  you  would  have 
the  world  to  believe,  that  he  did  it" — her  voice  became 
a  taunt — "all  for  charity !" 

"I  do.  It  was  charity.  He  was  a  poet.  He  was  a 
gentleman." 

She  was  bitter  again. 

"Oh,  I  know  your  gentlemen !" 

"He  was  all  that  the  word  implies." 

"That's  right!  They  do  that  sort  of  thing — when  a 
girl  happens  to  be  beautiful  and  happens  to  be  poor. 
What  do  you  know  of  what  passed  between  them?  You 
weren't  sitting  there  watching  them  all  the  time.  Com 
promised  her!  Kept  her  here  until  he  was  tired  of 
her " 

She  was  saying  other  things,  not  all  of  which  Par 
tridge  heard.  It  was  a  voice  inside  of  himself  that 
Partridge  heard — the  voice  of  that  earlier  doubt.  Was 
the  woman  right?  Had  Nathan  Tyrone's  own  father 
been  right?  It  was  a  searing,  darkening,  damning  doubt, 
and  one  that  Partridge  prayed  against  with  all  the  fervor 

163 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

of  his  soul.  Yet  it  was  there.  He  recognized  it  for  some 
thing  that  he  had  heard  and  seen  before — a  specter  with 
a  voice.  Why  not?  What  would  there  have  been  so 
strange  if  Nathan  Tyrone  had  succumbed — first  pity,  then 
sympathy,  then  love,  then  a  flame  of  passion — when  he, 
Mr.  Nathan,  was  still  so  young  and  inexperienced  ? 

None  the  less,  Partridge  pleaded. 

"It  is  not  so!  It  is  not  so!" — and  Partridge  cast  his 
two  hands  into  the  air.  But  he  was  not  pleading  to  the 
woman.  He  was  pleading  to  his  own  momentary  loss  of 
faith.  Again  he  told  the  old  tale  of  his  master's  good 
ness,  gentleness,  pride  of  soul,  love  of  beauty.  He  even 
referred  to  that  one  and  only  and  most  beautiful  passion 
in  his  life — for  Mme.  Tyrone  and  Melissine. 

Mme.  Jenesco  let  him  talk.  Now  he  was  on  familiar 
ground.  She  let  him  get  rid  of  some  of  his  emotion  in 
this  safe  way. 

"And  me!    What  was  he  doing  for  me  all  this  time?" 

"He  was  generous " 

"With  money !" 

"No  man  would  have  done  more." 

"What  good  did  money  do  me?  It  wasn't  money  that 
I  needed.  It  was  love !  It  was  real  love !  It  was  a 
father's  love !  Instead  of  that  it  was  money — money — 
nothing  but  money !  It's  always  been  that  when  I  wanted 
something  else.  They  stuck  me  in  a  school  that  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to.  They  gave  me  an  education  that  I  didn't 
want.  And  when  I  ran  away  from  it,  looking  for  some 
thing  that  my  heart  craved — you  know  what  happened 
to  me — and  what  always  happens  to  girls  like  that — and 

164 


A  Bid  for  Charity 

they  offered  me  money — more  money !  Damn  you,  stand 
ing  there  and  talking  about  money !" 

She  had  advanced  on  Partridge  almost  as  if  she  could 
have  struck  him.  But  it  wouldn't  have  been  him  that 
she  would  have  struck  so  much  as  it  would  have  been 
the  symbol  of  what  she  had  learned  to  hate.  She  had 
been  speaking  with  a  subdued  intensity.  But  at  the  very 
climax  of  her  denunciation  she  stopped,  her  voice  broke 
into  a  little  sob.  This  time  there  were  real  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

There,  for  a  moment,  Partridge  looked  as  if  he  were 
sorely  tempted  to  take  her  into  his  arms  and  console 
her.  He  started  to  console  her — a  broken,  inarticulate 
word. 

But  the  woman  broke  out,  tearful,  but  still  furious : 

"I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  claim  my  own!  I'm  coming 
to  this  house  to  live.  I'm  here  and  I'm  going  to  stay. 
I'm  tired  of  living  like  a  beggar — now  that  I'm  getting 
to  be  too  old  to  be  anything  else." 

Partridge  had  turned.  He  walked  with  a  tottering 
step,  uncertain  of  his  destination.  Mechanically  he 
straightened  a  chair.  For  a  while  he  was  standing  with 
his  face  to  the  wall.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  fore 
head.  He  raised  it  a  little  higher  and  straightened  the 
portrait  of  Mr.  Eliphalet  Tyrone. 

The  woman  took  advantage  of  the  lull  to  regain  con 
trol  of  herself.  She  opened  her  hand-bag.  She  looked 
at  herself  in  the  small  mirror  it  contained.  She  straight 
ened  her  mourning  toque.  She  touched  up  her  dark  red 

165 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

hair  where  it  curled  out  from  under  her  toque  over  her 
temples. 

But  she  must  have  appreciated  that  her  battle  was  far 
from  won  as  she  closed  her  bag  and  turned  to  look  after 
Partridge  again.  She  gave  a  slight  start.  Maybe  she 
felt  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  something  she  did 
not  altogether  comprehend. 

Partridge  had  been  standing  at  the  side  of  Nathan 
Tyrone  looking  down  into  his  master's  face.  He  was 
as  if  unconscious — Partridge  was — of  any  other  presence 
in  the  room.  While  the  woman  was  still  looking  at  him, 
Partridge  slipped  down  to  one  knee.  He  folded  his 
hands.  He  bowed  his  head. 

Mme.  Jenesco  didn't  care  to  look  too  much.  She 
strolled  over  to  the  open  but  shuttered  window.  She 
tilted  the  slats  of  one  of  the  shutters.  She  looked  out. 
The  long  spring  twilight  had  begun.  Through  the  dusk 
she  could  see  Melissine  Tyrone  and  Eugene  Buckhannon 
slowly  walking  through  one  of  the  paths  of  the  old  grave 
yard.  They  were  arm  in  arm.  Buckhannon's  head  was 
bowed. 

Beyond  them,  in  the  street,  leaning  against  the  iron 
pickets  of  the  graveyard  fence,  like  the  figure  of  one 
who  would  have  entered  there  to  rest — even  as  she  sought 
rest  in  this  forbidden  house — she  saw  some  one  whom 
she  recognized  as  old  Goodenough,  the  familiar  coach 
man  of  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


IT  is  curious  how  silent  and  peaceful  all  the  surround 
ings  can  be  when  a  life  and  death  struggle  is  in 
progress.  This  struggle  that  was  taking  place  be 
tween  Partridge  and  Mme.  Jenesco  was  a  life  and  death 
struggle  in  a  way.  It  may  not  have  been  his  or  her  par 
ticular  life  for  which  each  struggled.  But,  if  anything, 
it  was  a  fiercer  struggle  precisely  because  of  that — as  if 
each  had  been  fighting  for  something  dearer  than  life — > 
each  fighting  to  preserve  the  life  of  a  child :  Mme.  Jenesco 
trying  to  keep  the  breath  of  life  in  this  baby  imp  of  a 
hope  she  had  conceived ;  Partridge  trying  to  conserve  the 
spiritual  thing  he  had  created  out  of  his  own  spirit  and 
flesh  during  all  the  years  of  his  service.  Yet,  outside  this 
house,  outside  this  room,  there  was  no  sign  of  all  this. 

You  couldn't  have  expected  old  New  York  to  give 
any  token  of  interest. 

It  meant  nothing  to  New  York  what  happened  to  a 
person  or  even  a  group  of  persons  in  an  obscure  old 
house.  New  York  had  crawled  with  dramas  little  and 
big  ever  since  the  first  occupation  by  the  Dutch. 

Nowadays  more  than  a  thousand  of  her  little  men 
and  women  died  every  week  of  the  year,  and  that  was 

167 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

normal.  Every  day  of  the  week  a  hundred  or  two  of 
atoms  who  had  called  themselves  New  Yorkers,  and  who 
most  likely  had  come  to  the  big  city  from  distant  farms 
and  villages,  far  coasts  and  mountain  valleys — consumed 
with  ambition,  inspired  with  a  divine  belief  in  them 
selves  and  in  their  own  divinity — choked  out  their  lives 
in  this  or  that  dusty  kennel — while  the  tears  and  prayers 
of  relatives  made  each  passing  a  drama  of  its  own. 

But  old  New  York  didn't  mind.  Hurdy-gurdies  for 
New  York,  and  the  latest  song,  and  the  latest  thing  in 
reforms ! 

On  this  particular  day  there  was  no  such  street  as 
Cinnamon,  so  far  as  any  one  would  have  noticed. 

Through  the  broad,  new  avenue,  paved  with  granite 
and  lined  with  new  factories  and  warehouses,  raw  and 
square,  the  big  trucks  thundered,  and  the  iron-shod  horses 
struck  fire.  Along  the  big  docks  the  ships  blew  off  steam 
and  swallowed  and  disgorged  their  thousands  of  tons  of 
freight.  Out  in  the  broad  North  River  and  around  in 
the  harbor  generally,  the  little  tugs  scurried  about  like 
ants,  and  the  big  Sound  and  river  boats  churned  their 
way  for  Albany  or  Boston ;  or  a  battle-ship  came  in  like 
a  floating  mountain,  or  a  floating  skyscraper  of  a  liner 
headed  out  for  Europe. 

Little  difference  it  made  to  New  York,  or  the  world 
at  large,  these  births,  deaths,  and  other  poignant  acci 
dents  that  never  ceased  under  the  ragged  sky-line. 

More  curious  yet,  though,  the  quiet  and  the  peace  of 
the  immediate  vicinity. 

Cinnamon  Street  itself  was  like  that.  Cinnamon  Street 
168 


A  Wreath  of  Immortelles 

may  have  been  watching  everything  from  under  half- 
closed  lids  like  a  drowsy  dog — drowsy  all  the  way  from 
Tony  Zamboni's,  on  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  right  on 
down  to  Pliny's  which  made  of  Cinnamon  Street  a 
cul-de-sac. 

The  spring  twilight  thickened.  A  few  nighthawk  spar 
rows  still  twittered  in  the  vines  of  the  chapel.  A  few 
bats  were  out  policing  the  insect  noctambules. 

And  up  and  down  the  gravelly,  grass-grown  path  at 
the  back  of  the  chapel-yard,  Buckhannon  and  Melissine 
had  continued  to  walk  like  two  of  Goodenough's  ghostly 
lovers : 

No  one  walks  there  now; 
Except  in  the  white  of  moonlight. 

"That  old  man  is  still  over  there  by  the  fence,"  said 
Melissine. 

"That  is  old  Goodenough,  the  coachman,"  said  Buck 
hannon. 

"Dear  old  soul!"  said  Melissine. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  to  market,"  Buckhannon 
remarked,  speaking  idly  as  one  will  whose  real  thought 
is  elsewhere  and  too  deeply  planted  for  a  blossom  of 
words. 

But  Melissine  had  continued  to  look  in  Goodenough's 
direction,  a  glow  of  interest  and  sympathy  in  her  face. 

"I  do  believe,"  she  said,  "that  he  has  been  trying  to 
attract  our  attention.  Let  us  go  over.  We  will  pretend 
to  be  talking  about  something  else  so  as  not  to  embarrass 
him  if  he  didn't  want  to  speak  to  us." 

169 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"All  right,"  said  Buckhannon.  "I  always  did  feel 
grateful  to  the  old  fellow — for  taking  you  out  driving 
the  first  time  that  I  ever  came  into  Cinnamon  Street.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  might  never  have  seen  you." 

They  were  in  a  solemn  and  gentle  mood.  Most  of  the 
time  they  had  been  silent.  They  had  no  suspicion  as  to 
what  turn  of  events  might  have  developed  between  Par 
tridge  and  the  Woman  in  Black.  But  each  may  have 
prayed  in  a  way  that  nothing  was  amiss.  This  with  no 
certitude  that  everything  was  not  right.  Anyway,  it  must 
have  been  that  to  each  one  of  them  an  answer  to  his 
and  her  prayer  had  come.  Each  was  at  peace — a  peace 
so  perfect  that  it  would  have  been  hard  for  any  one, 
seeing  them,  to  imagine  that  there,  in  that  old  house, 
right  at  the  side  of  them,  such  a  struggle  was  taking 
place  and  such  a  drama  was  being  played  as  we  have 
seen. 

They  hadn't  gone  very  far  before  they  became  aware 
that  Melissine's  guess  had  been  correct.  Old  Goodenough 
had  been  making  signals  to  them,  sure  enough. 

Old  Goodenough,  outside  the  rusty  palings,  leaned 
against  them  and  peered  through  them  as  he  had  so  often 
done.  Now,  as  ever,  moreover,  there  was  a  look  of  poetic 
and  melancholic  aspiration  on  the  old  cabby's  vinous 
face.  He  carried  something  on  or  under,  or  both  on 
and  under,  his  arm. 

His  whisper  reached  them — but  at  first  only  as  a 
murmur,  something  that  they  could  not  understand. 

"Oh!"  Melissine  exclaimed,  and  she  had  run  toward 
Goodenough  through  the  grass. 

170 


A  Wreath  of  Immortelles 

Melissine  was  intuitive. 

It  was  a  wreath  of  immortelles  that  Goodenough  had 
brought;  it  was  something  that  would  have  looked  very 
old-fashioned  anywhere  except  in  Goodenough's  posses 
sion  or  outside  of  Cinnamon  Street.  But  there  was 
something  exquisitely  proper  about  it  here — like  a  thing 
that  only  a  poet  could  have  thought  of. 

And  what  Goodenough  had  been  trying  to  whisper 
to  them  was  that  he  had  brought  this  wreath  for  the 
late  master  of  No.  6. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  cried  Melissine  softly.  "Won't  you 
come  in?" 

Goodenough  shook  his  head,  but  there  was  a  courtlier 
refusal  in  his  seamed  and  discolored  face. 

"Come  on  in,  Mr.  Goodenough,"  Buckhannon  supple 
mented. 

Goodenough  stole  a  furtive  look  about  him. 

"I  would,"  he  said,  "if  I  could  come  in  without  any 
one  seeing  me.  But  this  is  a  street  of  evil  rumors.  I've 
done  enough  evil  in  my  day  without  giving  rise  to  more 
talk." 

Melissine  probably  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  this 
cryptic  utterance,  but  Buckhannon  got  the  sense  of  it — 
or  thought  he  did.  Goodenough  was  thinking  about  the 
druggist.  He  was  thinking  about  old  Hickcock.  Good- 
enough  had  an  imagination.  He  could  imagine  some  of 
the  tales  they  would  invent  if  they  saw  him  going  into 
the  house  of  mystery. 

"And  I  am  not  clean  enough,"  Goodenough  was  pro 
claiming  with  gentle  frankness.  He  couldn't  keep  his 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

eyes  away  from  Melissine.  But  his  eyes  were  reveren 
tial — as  one  might  surmise  the  eyes  of  a  poet  to  be  when 
they  first  glimpse  the  magic  beauty  of  an  as  yet  un 
written  verse.  "I  once  was  clean,"  said  Goodenough. 
"I  once  was  considered  attractive.  A  man  doesn't  have 
to  be  beautiful  for  that.  The  mind  is  enough — if  fate 
leads  him  to  the  woman  who  knows  what  a  mind  is." 

"Your  wreath  is  beautiful,"  said  Melissine  again. 
"Won't  you  bring  it  in  to  him  ?  I  am  sure  that  he  would 
love  to  have  you." 

Goodenough  pondered.  His  face  was  very  expressive 
there  in  the  twilight.  It  was  not  so  much  like  an  old, 
old  cabby  peering  through  a  rusty  iron  fence,  as  it  was 
a  young,  young  poet  peering  through  the  cabby's  rusty 
face. 

"It  may  be  that  I  could  come  in  by  the  back  door," 
said  Goodenough. 

"You'll  come  in  by  the  front  door,"  gusted  Melissine, 
"and  we'll  go  with  you.  Won't  we,  Eugene?" 

"That  we  will,"  Buckhannon  answered. 

So  they  left  the  graveyard  by  way  of  the  gate  at  the 
side  of  the  chapel,  and  they  rejoined  Goodenough  there, 
where  he  had  awaited  them,  and  they  brought  him  to 
the  stoop  of  No.  6,  and  up  the  stoop  and  through  the 
door — which  they  entered  without  knocking — just  in 
time  to  perceive  that  something  of  importance  must  have 
been  transacting  there. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THUS   SPAKE   THE   SPIRIT 

WHEN  Partridge  resumed  his  feet  and  turned  to 
confront  the  visitor  after  having  knelt  at  his 
master's  side,  he  was  somewhat  like  Moses  when 
that  prophet  came  down  from  Sinai  with  the  tables  of 
testimony  in  his  hand,  and  he  "wist  not  that  the  skin  of 
his  face  shone.     Partridge  was  calm.     He  was  strong. 
He  also  shone  with  an  inner  light. 

"I  have  listened  to  you  with  the  utmost  sympathy," 
Partridge  said.  "You  will  forgive  me  if  I  may  have 
allowed  it  to  appear  otherwise.  We  must  all  of  us  for 
give  in  this  world,  as  we  hope  for  forgiveness.  We 
all  have  so  much  to  forgive — so  much  to  be  forgiven." 

The  woman  was  on  her  guard.  She  watched  him  nar 
rowly.  However,  she  murmured  an  assent. 

"I  believe  that  you  came  here  in  response  to  a  per 
fectly  natural  and  praiseworthy  motive,"  Partridge  pur 
sued;  "one  that  bears  testimony  to  your  goodness  of 
heart." 

"Of  course  I  did,"  the  woman  said;  but  she  was  still 
wondering  what  he  was  leading  up  to.  She  drew  back 
from  him  a  little  as  he  passed  her.  She  followed  him 
into  the  hall  and  over  into  the  drawing-room. 

173 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Pray  be  seated,"  Partridge  said,  with  his  new  calm 
strong  upon  him. 

She  sank  into  one  of  the  Gobelin  chairs.  She  quietly 
watched  the  butler  as  he  lit  a  small  wax  taper,  then 
went  about  lighting  other  candles  here  and  there.  But 
presently  the  woman  wasn't  watching  Partridge  any 
longer.  She  had  fallen  into  a  contemplation  of  the  beau 
ties  of  the  room.  She  sensed  the  richness  of  it.  The 
Boucher  pictures  might  have  been  nameless  for  her,  but 
she  must  have  guessed  the  value  of  them — and  the  value 
of  furniture  like  this,  the  value  of  the  Beauvais  carpet 
beneath  her  feet. 

Who  knows'?  It  may  have  occurred  to  her  that  all 
this  might  become  hers — might  already  be  hers  by  nat 
ural  right. 

Partridge  was  taking  his  time,  as  if  he  were  not  un 
willing  to  profit  by  the  occasion  for  extra  thought.  He 
paused  and  listened  as  an  Ormolu  clock  chirred  heavily, 
then  struck  softly  with  a  golden  tone.  Partridge  turned 
and  looked  at  the  visitor  as  note  followed  note. 

"He  loved  that  chime,"  he  said. 

The  woman's  mood  was  out  of  harmony. 

"When  I  think  of  the  way  my  mother  lived,  and  the 
way  I've  lived !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  Partridge  countered  softly. 
"It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  this  world — why  there 
should  be  rich  and  poor:  why  one  is  master  and  one 
is  servant.  Not  that  I  have  ever  regretted  my  own  situa 
tion  in  life.  It  isn't  one's  place  in  the  world.  Sooner 
or  later  we  are  all  driven  to  measure  ourselves  and 

174 


Thus  Spake  the  Spirit 

those  about  us,  by  spiritual  values.  There  is  a  spirit 
in  us  that  sometimes  maketh  us  different  from  what  the 
world  judges  us  to  be." 

"To  get  your  rights  in  this  world  you've  got  to  stand 
up  for  them,"  said  the  woman.  "That's  what  I'm  talk 
ing  about.  And  that's  what  I  came  here  for.  When 
I'm  dead  I'll  be  dead.  But  now  I'm  alive,  and  I  won't 
be  cast  off  any  longer." 

"You  shall  not  be  cast  off  any  longer,"  said  Partridge, 
with  perfect  patience.  "That  was  what  I  had  started 
out  to  say  when  you  turned  the  conversation  into  spir 
itual  channels." 

"What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"I  was  going  to  say  that  we  could  resume  the  allow 
ance — I  am  certain  that  Mr.  Tyrone  would  agree  to  this 
if  he  could  speak — just  as  if  you  had  not  received  the 
check  for  a  year's  allowance." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do?"  demanded  the  woman. 
"Are  you  trying  to  put  me  right  back  where  I  was?  A 
miserly  hundred  a  month!  A  lot  of  good  that  would 
do  me." 

"We  might  increase  it." 

"It  isn't  that.  It  isn't  that  at  all,"  the  woman  cried. 
She  forgot  something  of  her  education,  reverted  to  some 
thing  of  her  savage  and  untutored  drawl.  "Won't  you 
ever  see?  You  got  me  wrong.  I'm  just  as  good  as  that 
other  girl.  Look  at  her.  Out  there  walking  around 
with  her  sweetheart.  Not  a  care  in  the  world.  This 
is  a  good  house,  even  if  it  has  got  a  bad  name.  And 
I'm  going  to  live  here." 

175 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"I^ave  you  no  pity  for  Mr.  Tyrone's  daughter?" 

"Has  she  got  any  for  me?" 

"She  has  always  had  pity — for  every  one." 

"I  don't  want  any  of  it." 

"You  said  a  little  while  ago,"  Partridge  reminded  her, 
"that  your  mother  was  beautiful.  She  was  beautiful. 
And  she  had  some  beautiful  qualities.  Have  you  over 
looked  the  fact  that  I  was  here  when  she  was  here? 
Hasn't  it  occurred  to  you  that  possibly  I  was  thinking 
of  her  as  well  as  of  yourself  when  I  made  the  proposal 
to  have  the  allowance  resumed?  I  am  proposing  that 
it  be  doubled.  But  it  can  only  be  if  you  are  as  con 
siderate  as  your  mother  was." 

"She  wasn't  considerate,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "She 
was  a  mark!" 

"Those  who  are  genuinely  good  often  are  the  vic 
tims — in  the  eyes  of  the  world,"  said  Partridge.  "But 
I  dare  say  that  they  are  not  always  such  in  the  final 
judgment.  I  shall  ask  you,  therefore,  to  return  quietly 
to  your  old  address;  it  seemed  quiet  and  respectable." 

"It  was  all  of  that,"  the  woman  jeered.  "It  was  an 
old  ladies'  home!" 

"I  shall  call  to  see  you  there  immediately  after  the 
funeral." 

"So  you  don't  even  want  me  in  the  same  street." 

"The  rumors  that  were  started  when  your  mother  was 
here,  unhappily,  still  persist  and  give  rise  to  other 
rumors " 

Partridge  moved  over  to  the  doorway  and  held  the 
176 


Thus  Spake  the  Spirit 

curtains  back.     Unfortunately,  the  action  seemed  to  re 
vive  all  of  th£  woman's  resentment  and  fire. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that 
had  gone  hoarse  and  ugly.  "Get  me  ?  I'm  going  to  stay 
here — where  I  belong.  And  I'm  going  to  be  the  mistress 
of  this  house.  I'm  going  to  run  it — and  you — and  her!" 

A  tinge  of  fire  came  into  Partridge's  pale  cheeks. 

"It  is  getting  late,"  he  said. 

"I'm  going  to  discharge  you,"  said  the  visitor  with 
slow  decision.  "You  can  go  up  and  begin  to  pack  right 
now." 

Now  Partridge  met  her  eyes. 

"Have  you,"  he  asked,  "no  sense  of  reverence?" 

"Get!" 

"I  deny  your  authority." 

"Do  you  deny  that  I  am  Nathan  Tyrone's  daughter.?" 

"I  do." 

"Oh,  you  do !    So  it's  a  scandal  you're  looking  for  1" 

"There  shall  be  no  scandal." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,  when  I  tell  the  whole  world  how 
Nathan  Tyrone  brought  my  mother  here  to  this  house 
and  kept  her  here  until  the  old  man  interfered  and  put 
her  out." 

"That  is  no  proof." 

"No.  I  suppose  not.  And  it  wasn't  proof,  either,  that 
Nathan  Tyrone  kept  putting  up  for  us  all  these  years, 
and  spending  money  on  my  education  and  all  that " 

"He  did  it  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart,"  said 
Partridge. 

<TBecause  he  knew  that  he  was  my  father." 
177 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Not  he,"  gasped  Partridge.  "He  led  a  life  of  abso 
lute  purity.  He  wasn't  your  father." 

"Oh,  he  wasn't!" 

"No!"    Partridge  was  at  bay. 

"Then  who  was?" 

Partridge  drew  the  curtains  about  him.  He  was  waxen 
white.  His  eyes  burned  bright.  His  breath  came  in  little 
gasps. 

"It  was  I!" 


CHAPTER  XXX 
"WHERE  DID  YOU  GET  IT?" 

THE  hall-door  had  opened  and  shut  say  ten  sec 
onds  ago.  Buckhannon  and  Melissine  and  old 
Goodenough  were  there  in  the  hall  now.  They 
had  entered  and  made  no  sound,  filled  with  the  reverent 
tenderness  proper  to  the  occasion.  Goodenough  had  his 
wreath  of  immortelles  on  his  arm.  He  had  laboriously 
taken  off  his  hat — which  had  always  seemed  a  part  of 
himself — and  this  had  taken  a  little  time ;  and  then  Buck 
hannon,  kindly  and  anxious  to  serve,  had  taken  Good- 
enough's  hat  and  hung  it  up  for  him. 

But  now  all  of  them  had  been  at  rest  long  enough  to 
hear  the  last  part  of  the  altercation : 

"...  He  wasn't  your  father!" 

"...   Who  was?" 

"It  was  I!" 

They  had  been  startled.  They  hadn't  wanted  to  hear. 
They  could  neither  retreat  very  well  nor  go  ahead.  And 
then,  before  they  could  join  in  a  common  movement, 
Partridge  himself  had  drawn  the  curtains  aside  and  there 
they  were. 

Old  Goodenough  was  the  center  of  the  group  in  the 
hall.  He  was  like  a  gnome,  an  elemental  come  up  out  of 

179 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

the  earth.  His  bold  and  discolored  features  were  cast 
into  strong  relief  by  the  flickering  light.  His  stiff  gray 
hair  was  like  a  whorl  of  wind-blown  wheat.  Back  of 
him,  a  mere  white  shadow,  was  Melissine,  mostly  eyes. 
Buckhannon  was  the  picture  of  a  man  taken  by  surprise 
— as  he  was.  But  it  was  he  who  saved  the  situation,  as 
much  as  it  could  be  saved. 

"We  didn't  wish  to  disturb  you,"  he  said  to  Partridge. 
"Our  friend,  Mr.  Goodenough " 

He  let  his  explanation,  such  as  it  was,  run  out  in  a 
gesture.  Melissine,  quick  to  understand  the  needs  of 
the  situation  if  not  the  full  purport  of  it,  had  come  to 
Buckhannon's  support.  Her  method  of  doing  this  was 
to  shrink  to  his  side  so  close  that  he  could  take  her  hand 
without  the  action  being  too  apparent  to  the  others. 

"He  wanted  to  see  father,"  said  Melissine. 

But  if  they  had  expected  Goodenough  to  respond  with 
an  equal  promptness  to  this  manifest  cue  they  were  de 
ceived.  Goodenough,  apparently,  had  forgotten  all  about 
them — forgotten  all  about  the  wreath  of  immortelles — 
so  that  the  wreath  now  appeared  to  be  a  decoration  in 
tended  for  himself,  like  the  wreaths  they  hang  on  statues 
such  days  as  the  Fourth  of  July.  Goodenough  stood 
there'  and  looked  and  looked,  and  it  was  at  Belle  Jenesco, 
as  if  she  were  the  only  one  present.  His  lips  moved 
as  if  he  were  saying  things,  but  no  sound  came. 

Then  Melissine,  aware  that  the  moment  of  escape  was 
gone  anyway  and  that  Partridge,  just  then,  was  the  one 
most  in  need  of  consolation,  stepped  over  to  Partridge 

180 


"Where  Did  You  Get 

with  her  face  up.  She  drew  Partridge  toward  her  and 
kissed  him  on  the  temple. 

"This  way,"  said  Buckhannon  softly,  and  he  had 
taken  Goodenough  by  the  arm.  Melissine  had  joined 
them.  She  also  touched  Goodenough  lightly,  as  if  she 
and  Buckhannon  were  Goodenough's  sponsors  at  his  ini 
tiation  into  some  holy  order.  And  Goodenough  looked 
the  part.  He  was  deep  in  thought.  He  walked  like  one 
in  a  dream,  and  it  could  have  been  surmised  that  his 
dream  was  back  there  where  Mme.  Jenesco  stood,  and 
where  she  and  Partridge  were  once  again  alone. 

Partridge  had  been  unable  to  keep  back  a  few  tears. 
It  was  Melissine's  kiss  that  had  started  them,  no  mere 
weakness. 

Now  that  the  whole  world — as  he  reckoned  it — had 
heard  that  declaration  of  his,  Partridge,  at  that,  might 
have  been  pardoned  some  small  display  of  weakness. 

It  was  quite  obvious — or  would  have  been  to  the  un- 
impassioned  observer  had  there  been  such  present — that 
that  declaration  Partridge  had  made  was  altogether  as 
upsetting  for  him  as  it  could  possibly  have  been  for  the 
Jenesco  woman. 

Partridge  was  an  old  gentleman  of  delicate  feeling, 
of  a  perfect  modesty.  To  him  the  mother  of  this  woman 
who  stood  there  now  had  always  symbolized  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  She  was  the  scarlet  woman  of 
Revelations.  She  was  that  to  him  now  as  he  stood  there 
with  his  eyes  all  misty,  and  this  was  her  emissary  who 
confronted  him  here.  He  had  claimed  this  emissary  as 
his  own  daughter — flesh  of  his  flesh,  spirit  of  his  spirit. 

181 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

There  crept  into  Partridge's  pallid  cheek  a  tinge  of 
red. 

The  woman  stared  at  him.  She  at  once  perceived  the 
absurdity  of  his  claim,  and  yet  the  cunning  force  of  it. 
She  knew  well  enough  that  what  Partridge  was  now  he 
had  always  been.  Fundamentally  no  man  changes. 
What  he  is  in  youth  that  he  remains — on  through  middle 
age,  over  the  crest  and  into  the  world  beyond. 

She  didn't  have  to  be  told  that  Partridge,  for  all  his 
seeming  simplicity,  had  shot  her  little  scheme  all  to 
pieces.  She  knew  as  well  as  any  one  that  if  it  came 
to  court  not  one  man  in  a  thousand  would  refuse  to  be 
lieve  Partridge,  would  consent  to  believe  her.  Didn't 
he  have  everything  to  lose  by  making  a  claim  like  that? 
Didn't  she  have  everything  to  gain  if  her  own  claim 
went  through  ? 

And  ranged  against  her,  as  she  also  knew,  would  be 
the  accumulated,  piled-up  discredit  the  world  has  always 
had  for  women  like  herself — and  like  her  mother ! 

She  was  desperate.  She  oozed  red  like  a  cuttlefish 
oozing  ink. 

But  this  merely  served  to  heighten  the  effect  when  her 
reaction  came.  This  reaction  came  as  if  her  surround 
ing  sultriness  had  let  out  a  quiver  of  white  lightning. 

"You,  my  father!"  she  panted. 

No  response  from  Partridge.    None  was  needed. 

There  had  been  no  thunder  as  yet ;  just  those  premoni 
tory  glitterings  of  electric  energy.  The  air  was  very  still. 
But  even  so,  every  now  and  then  a  shiver  ran  through 
the  standing  flames  of  the  candles  in  the  room  as  if 

182 


"Where  Did  Tern  Get  It?" 

they  had  been  shaken  by  a  common  breath  of  eery 
anticipation. 

"So  it  was  you,  was  it,  who  sent  me  and  my  mothetf 
all  that  money?" 

"We  will  not  go  into  that,"  said  Partridge,  trying  to 
dominate  the  situation. 

"Oh,  won't  we !"  the  woman  sneered. 

"Mr.  Tyrone  knew  nothing  about  money,  cared  noth 
ing  about  it,"  said  Partridge.  "It  was  I  who  had  the 
handling  of  all  funds.  I  was  free  to  handle  these  funds 
as  I  saw  fit." 

"Well,  tell  me  this,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  com 
placency  which  indicated  how  strong  she  knew  her  posi 
tion  to  be.  "Did  Mr.  Tyrone — or  did  he  not — know  that 
you  was  handing  us  this  money — handing  this  money 
to  my  mother  and  me.  If  he  did  know  it,  and  let  you 
do  it,  that  means  that  he  was  my  father.  If  he  didn't 
know  it,  and  you  handed  this  money  to  us  all  on  your 
own,  that  means — well,  maybe  that  can  be  settled  in  the 
courts." 

"Surely,"  Partridge  began,  "you  do  not  think — you 
do  not  really  believe " 

"Oh,  don't  I?" 

"My  God,  madam ." 

"It's  just  like  I  say/'  Belle  elucidated.  "If  Nathan 
Tyrone  gave  us  all  that  money,  then  I  can  prove  that  I 
have  a  natural  right  to  his  property;  and  if  you  gave 
it  to  us,  without  him  knowing  about  it,  why  it  means 
that  you've  been  looting  the  estate.  That's  all.  You  can 
take  your  choice.  And  you  can  go  to  Sing  Sing  and  rot, 

183 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

too,  for  all  I'll  care" — her  voice  went  bitter  and  ironical 
— "even  if  you  are  my  father !" 

"Oh — oh,  for  God's  sake,"  whispered  Partridge,  short 
of  breath.  He  panted  for  a  few  moments  in  compara 
tive  silence.  "I  beg  of  you  to  defer  this  discussion.  All 
will  be  made  clear;  but  not  now — not  now.  There  is 
something  that  I  can't  tell  you;  something  that  must 
never  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Miss  Tyrone.  Surely 
you  would  not  like  to  see  her  suffer.  She  is  an  inno 
cent  creature,  a  most  lovable  character " 

He  cut  himself  off  short  as  he  heard  Buckhannon, 
Melissine,  and  Goodenough  returning  through  the  hall. 
He  straightened  up  and  enjoined  silence  with  a  gesture. 
Mme.  Jenesco,  however,  didn't  care  who  heard  her,  or 
what  they  heard.  She  started  to  speak. 

"Silence!" 

Partridge  had  dominated  the  situation  at  last.  So  far 
as  securing  silence,  he  had.  For  the  moment,  that  is, 
he  had. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

FOR  a  long  time  Mme.  Jenesco  had  been  living  in 
a  lodging-house,  up  a  side  street  off  Eighth  Ave 
nue,  in  a  drab  and  squalid  neighborhood.  When 
she  went  there,  she  had  intended  it  to  be  a  mere  make 
shift  and  temporary.  Up  until  that  time  she  had  always 
managed  to  put  on  a  certain  amount  of  style.  Jenesco, 
altogether  undesirable  as  a  husband  in  most  respects,  had 
at  least  been  lavish — now  and  then — with  his  money; 
or  rather  with  other  people's  money.  Then  Jenesco  had 
left  her — their  married  life,  at  the  best,  had  been  sketchy; 
but  this  time  he  had  gone  to  prison.  It  was  there  that 
he  died.  So  much  for  him.  The  point  is  that  the 
lodging-house  up  the  mean  street  had  ceased  to  be  the 
makeshift,  had  been  threatening  to  become  Belle's  per 
manent  abode. 

She  hated  it.  She  feared  it.  In  her  moments  of  clear 
and  detached  self-analysis  she  did. 

"This  is  you — this  is  a  part  of  yourself,"  she  would 
say  to  herself.  "These  people  you  see  out  there  in  the 
street,  ugly  and  unwashed,  the  misfits  and  the  has-beens, 
they're  your  sort;  otherwise  you  wouldn't  hive  with 
them."  And  at  her  fate  she'd  rage:  "Never!  Never  I 

185 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

I'll  kill  myself  first.  I'm  not  meant  to  live  like  this.  I 
want  something  better,  and  I'll  have  it." 

The  children  in  the  street  liked  her  well  enough,  and 
she  liked  them.  She  was  always  buying  things  for  them. 
It  was  a  species  of  luxury  she  allowed  herself;  it  satis 
fied  her  hankering  for  admiration,  sympathy,  beauty — 
for  happiness,  in  short. 

But  more  and  more  she  felt  the  lodging-house  getting 
its  grip  on  her.  She  left  it  for  occasional  ventures  else 
where — a  visit  to  Atlantic  City,  a  sojourn  with  a  friend 
in  some  flat  or  other  far  up-town,  a  winter  at  Palm 
Beach.  But  these  had  been  mere  reprieves,  each  re 
prieve  a  little  less  attractive  than  the  last.  The  old  hap 
hazard  life  was  beginning  to  pall. 

And  the  children  of  the  street  would  see  her  again, 
day  after  day,  month  after  month,  and  stare  at  her  with 
frank  admiration.  She  was  not  like  the  elders  they 
knew  at  home — bitter  and  violent,  generally  ugly,  jeal 
ously  watchful  of  their  privileges. 

There  were  a  dozen  of  these  minor  friends  now  in 
the  street  as  she  left  the  lodging-house  for  what  she  des 
perately  hoped  would  be  the  last  time.  The  children 
had  seen  the  trunk  brought  down  to  the  taxi-cab  and 
had  lingered  about  to  see  what  might  follow. 

"Good-by,  Gertie;  I'm  off,"  said  Belle.  "Good-bye, 
Lizzie.  Good-by,  Jo." 

They  smiled  and  twisted  and  said  nothing  in  reply; 
but  there  was  obviously  a  sincere  regret  back  of  their 
speechlessness.  A  bit  of  color  was  going  out  of  their 

186 


lives,  a  source  of  candy  and  sodas,  a  certain  warmth 
of  vague  but  pleasing  fellowship.  This  lady  had  been 
good  to  smell  and  good  to  touch,  good  to  hear  and  good 
to  look  at,  and  even  satisfying  in  some  dim  way  to  the 
very  souls  of  them. 

Lizzie  shrilled  out:  "Aincha  never  comin'  back  any 
more?" 

Belle  sang  out:  "Sure,  sweethearts,  I'll  come  back 
and  look  you  up.  Be  good !" 

The  taxi  grunted  and  sputtered  for  the  start.  She 
waved  her  hand,  and  now  all  of  the  human  sparrows 
were  chirping  good-by. 

"God,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  "if  they  only  knew 
what  I'm  trying  to  pull !  Poor  little  tikes !  I  will  come 
back  and  see  'em  if  I  only  get  away  with  this.  I  swear 
to  God  I  will.  I  hope  it  brings  me  luck." 

She  was  launched  on  the  great  adventure.  She  was 
going  to  live — for  a  while  she  was — at  No.  6  Cinnamon 
Street.  Perhaps  the  house  would  be  hers.  A  house  like 
that!  No  more  of  that  dingy  parlor  and  alcove-bed 
room — that  smelled  of  onions  no  matter  how  many  sticks 
of  Chinese  punk  she  burned — that  was  getting  so  thread 
bare  she  no  longer  dared  turn  the  light  on  full  when  she 
entertained  a  friend — where  she  met  so  many  freaks 
and  back-numbers  on  the  stairs. 

But  she  was  safe.    She  was  playing  a  safe  game. 

Didn't  she  really  believe  that  the  late  Nathan  Tyrone 
•was  her  father?  And  wasn't  she  merely  trying  to  pro 
tect  herself? — and  her  property? — and  doing  now  what 

187 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

her  mother  on  her  deathbed  had  made  her  promise  she 
would  do? 

But  all  the  time  that  she  thus  consciously  or  uncon 
sciously  rehearsed  some  role  she  might  be  called  upon  to 
play  it  was  Partridge  who  mostly  occupied  her  thought. 
She  had  seen  him  falter,  quail,  had  heard  him  beg  for 
mercy,  every  time  she  had  mentioned  the  possibility  of 
bringing  him  and  the  affairs  of  the  Tyrones  to  court. 
Why  should  this  have  been  so  unless  Partridge  was  a 
crook?  And  yet  Partridge  did  not  strike  her  as  a  crook. 
She  drew  on  all  her  extensive  knowledge  of  crooks — the 
late  Jenesco  and  his  friends,  and  certain  friends  of  her 
own.  No,  Partridge  had  nothing  in  common  with  any 
of  them. 

And  yet,  he  must  be  a  crook.  If  he  wasn't  a  crook, 
why  was  he  letting  her  come  to  live  in  No.  6 — when  it 
would  have  been  so  easy  to  call  a  cop — or  lock  the  door  ? 
Why  had  he  made  that  funny  crack  about  his  being  her 
father  ? — when  he  wasn't !  Was  it  merely  to  save  Nathan 
Tyrone's  reputation?  Hardly!  That  didn't  have 
to  be  saved — not  that  way.  Was  it  to  save  Melissine's 
feelings  ? 

Belle's  thought  gave  a  lurch.  It  was  as  if  something 
back  of  her  thought  had  given  it  a  prod.  Funny  that 
she  hadn't  thought  of  this  before !  Who  was  Melissine's 
mother?  Belle  had  a  vague  recollection  that  it  had  been 
some  French  woman.  That  was  it — some  French  actress ! 
And  since  her  own  (Belle's)  descent  had  been  called 
into  question,  how  about  that  of  the  little  blonde? — she 
who  had  been  getting  the  best  of  it  all  along? — living  in 

188 


the  big  house? — getting  all  the  money  she  wanted  to 
spend? — under  the  guardianship  of  Mr.  Partridge? 

"My  God!"  Belle  exclaimed. 

And  there  rushed  into  her  mind  without  further  bid 
ding  the  way  Partridge  had  always  sought  to  protect 
Melissine  above  all  others,  the  things  that  Partridge  had 
said  about  the  secret  he  could  not  reveal — "something 
that  must  never  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Miss  Tyrone!" 
Those  were  his  words.  "Surely  you  would  not  like  to 
see  her  suffer!" 

"Nobody  gave  a  damn,  so  long  as  it  was  me  who  suf 
fered,"  said  Belle,  and  not  without  truth. 

The  cab  suddenly  began  to  jolt  and  she  was  reminded 
that  she  was  already  traversing  the  ancient  cobbles  of 
Cinnamon  Street.  The  cab  came  up  in  front  of  No.  6— 
her  home! 

There  was  a  tumult  inside  of  her.  There  was  -a  voice 
in  there  clamoring  that  she  had  a  right  to  be  here,  that 
she  had  a  right  to  this  place,  that  the  world  owed  it 
to  her  and  that  now,  at  last,  the  world  was  going  to 
pay  its  debt. 

Outwardly,  though,  there  was  no  sign  of  this  excite 
ment.  She  got  down  from  the  cab  with  a  perfect  poise 
— so  far  as  the  watchers  could  see.  She  glanced  up  at 
the  house.  The  door  was  closed.  She  felt  a  momentary 
panic  lest  it  should  be  locked  against  her,  after  all.  But 
she  paid  the  cabman  and  gave  him  a  generous  fee. 

"And,"  she  said,  "I  may  have  to  ask  you  to  give  the 
servant  a  hand  with  the  trunk." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MME.  DELILAH  AND 

IT  was  not  Partridge,  however,  who  opened  the  door. 
It  was  Eugene  Buckhannon.    At  first  sight  of  him, 
Belle's  heart  sank.    She  remembered  something  that 
Partridge  had  said  to  indicate  that  henceforward  this 
boy  was  by  way  of  becoming  the  master  of  the  house. 
But  this  sinking  of  the  heart  Belle  also  overcame,  so 
far  as  appearances  went.     She  smiled  at  him,  as  Buck 
hannon  came  trotting  down  the  steps.     He  was  sober, 
but  he  was  most  polite.    Moreover,  his  very  first  words 
were  assuring. 

"I'll  help  you,"  he  offered. 

And  he  did.  He  and  the  cabman  carried  the  trunk 
up  the  high  stoop  and  through  the  front  door,  Belle  fol 
lowing,  and  there  Buckhannon  gave  the  driver  another 
fee — one  that  sent  the  fellow  off  trying  to  hide  his  smile. 
The  door  closed. 

"You  knew  that  I  was  coming?"  asked  Belle.  Now 
she  was  altogether  mistress  of  herself. 

"Yes.     Partridge— Mr.  Partridge " 

Through  the  twilight  of  the  hall  Buckhannon  and  Mme. 
Jenesco  interchanged  a  friendly  smile  of  their  own. 
Buckhannon  believed  that  the  woman  actually  was  Par- 

190 
" 


Mme.  DeKlah  and — 

tridge's  daughter  and  was  determined  to  honor  her  and 
show  his  friendliness  for  her  for  Partridge's  sake.  But 
there  was  a  quality  in  Mme.  Jenesco's  smile  that  made 
Buckhannon  wince  a  little,  made  him  color  a  little  with 
a  shame  that  happily  she  could  not  see.  Was  she  smil 
ing  because  of  that  time  that  she  had  kissed  him — and 
he  had  let  her  kiss  him — out  there  by  the  chapel  fence? 

"Mr.  Partridge  said  you  were  coming,"  he  said.  "He 
and  Miss  Tyrone  had  to  go  away — something  to  do  with 
— Mr.  Tyrone — "  He  skipped  all  details.  "So  I  offered 
to  stay  and  watch  the  house." 

"Did— Mr.  Partridge"— and  Belle  stressed  the  "Mr." 
by  her  pause — "make  any  reference  to  what  room  I 
was  to  occupy?"  She  was  going  to  watch  her  language. 
Hereafter  she  was  going  to  speak  like  a  lady.  She  knew 
how. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Buckhannon.  "By  Jove!  I  should 
have  got  the  chauffeur  to  give  us  a  lift  up  the  stairs." 

"I'm  strong,"  said  Belle.  "Maybe  you  and  me — I  hate 
to  bother  you " 

"No  bother  at  all.  I'm  thinking  about  you.  I  bet  I 
could  carry  it  up  myself." 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing." 

"Watch" — and  before  Belle  could  interfere,  Buckhan 
non  had  caught  the  trunk  by  a  strap  on  the  end  and  had 
lifted  it  to  his  knees. 

"You'll  hurt  yourself,"  cried  Belle. 

"Wait  till  I  rest  it  on  the  stairs,"  said  Buckhannon. 
There  he  had  intended  getting  it  onto  his  back  in  the 
way  that  he  had  seen  expressmen  handle  such  cargo. 

191 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

But  disaster  almost  overtook  him.  The  trunk  was  heavy. 
It  was  beginning  to  slip. 

"Oh,  see,"  said  Belle  with  real  alarm.  She  was  alarmed 
for  Buckhannon,  not  for  the  trunk. 

She  tried  to  pass  him  so  that  she  could  get  a  hold  on 
the  trunk  at  the  forward  end;  but  she  was  so  rushed 
that  she  struck  a  corner  of  the  trunk.  It  swung  round. 
Without  such  a  jolt  Buckhannon  had  been  having  all  he 
could  do  to  keep  his  balance.  He  toppled.  The  front 
end  of  the  trunk  came  to  the  carpet.  The  end  he  held 
leaned  against  him.  And  he  would  have  fallen — with 
the  trunk  on  top  of  him,  most  likely — if  Belle  hadn't 
been  where  she  was.  She  caught  both  Buckhannon  and 
the  trunk;  they  tripped,  they  whirled,  and  were  caught 
by  the  stairs. 

It  was  all  involuntary.  Nature  plays  such  tricks.  But 
Buckhannon  was  aware  of  the  lithe  and  supple  body 
that  half-supported  him,  of  its  strength  and  heat  and 
fragrance.  He  was  trained  to  plastic  apprehension — 
contour,  shadow,  and  mass. 

"You  foolish  boy !"  breathed  Mme.  Janesco,  and  there 
was  a  vibrancy  back  of  the  breath — very  slow,  like  one 
of  those  tones  too  deep  for  the  human  ear  to  register. 
"You  might  have  killed  yourself !"  But  she  was  making 
no  effort  to  release  herself. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  asked  Buckhannon.  He  was  pant 
ing  a  little.  Unless  she  did  help  him,  he  would  be  unable 
to  release  himself,  or  her,  without  further  involuntary 
but  violent  contact.  He  and  the  trunk  and  the  newel- 

192 


Mme.  Delilah  and — 

post  and  Mme.  Jenesco  and  the  lower  step  all  appeared 
to  be  tangled  up  together. 

"I'm  not  hurt,"  laughed  Mme.  Jenesco. 

He  made  an  effort — but  he  had  to  press  against  her 
to  make  it — and  managed  to  set  the  trunk  on  end.  In 
a  moment  he  was  free. 

Now  he  was  very  sober.  He  was  all  the  more  sober 
in  that  some  instinct  was  telling  him  that  he  had  en 
joyed  this  accident  and  that  so  had  Mme.  Jenesco  and 
that  the  two  of  them  were  glad  of  the  enjoyment. 

"I  think  that,  after  all,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  to  take 
the  front  end  and  I  took  this,  most  of  the  weight  would 
be  down." 

She  also  tried  to  be  sober,  but  she  smiled.  She  caught 
her  end  of  the  trunk.  He  saw  the  curve  and  resiliency 
of  her  hips  as  she  lifted  the  weight  as  easily  as  any 
man  could  have  done  it.  And  after  that  they  were  plod 
ding  up  the  stairs. 

"What  if  Melissine — what  if  Melissine " 

But  not  even  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  thought  would 
Buckhannon  complete  the  accusation  that  his  half-formed 
question  implied.  They  went  through  the  dusk  of  the 
upper  hall  to  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor.  There 
was  no  mistaking  it.  This  was  the  room  of  honor. 

"Miss  Tyrone  wanted  you  to  have  this  room,"  said 
Buckhannon,  and  he  was  ready  to  retreat. 

"Sit  down  and  catch  your  breath,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  have  to  run  away." 

Now  he  felt  like  a  prig.  It  would  have  been  worse 
yet  to  obey  that  priggish  instinct  to  run  away.  So  he 

193 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

sat  down  and  looked  about  him.  It  was  a  lovely  room. 
There  was  a  four-poster  in  it  to  win  the  admiration  of 
any  budding  architect,  and  the  measurements  of  the  room 
were  as  if  balanced  to  this,  the  decorations  as  if  in 
spired  by  it — a  sampler,  a  few  French  colored  prints, 
a  rare  and  beautiful  old  wall-paper  of  delicate  hues  and 
widely  flowing  composition.  There  was  much  to  look 
at.  It  gave  Buckhannon  an  excuse  to  keep  his  eyes  di 
verted  from  Belle  for  the  few  moments  he  intended  to 
remain. 

But  again  nature  had  her  way. 

Without  thought — or  consciousness  even  of  any  dis 
comfort — he  had  started  to  rub  his  elbow. 

"You  hurt  yourself,"  said  Belle. 

"No,  no!" 

"I'm  sure  that  you  did.    Let  me  see !" 

And  then  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  that  he  take 
off  his  coat  and  roll  up  his  sleeve  to  show  her  that  noth 
ing  was  wrong.  The  skin  had  been  rubbed  from  his 
elbow  for  a  square  inch  or  so,  and  he  had  never  sus 
pected  it.  Now  he  couldn't  go! 

Belle  had  her  trunk  open  in  a  jiffy.  She  found  a 
bottle  she  sought.  What  she  needed  was  something 
that  could  be  used  as  a  bandage.  She  tossed  her  lingerie 
about — all  lace  and  pale  little  ribbons  and  gauzy  tissues, 
exquisitely  fine  and  clean — and  this  also  exhaled  a  per 
fume  through  the  room. 

"I'll  get  this  boy,"  Mme.  Jenesco  whispered  to  herself. 
"I'll  have  him  for  myself." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  TEMPTING  OF  SAMSON 

AH,  no !"  Buckhannon  exclaimed,  as  Belle  gripped 
some  garment  or  other  and  tore  a  strip  from  it. 
His  exclamation  seemed  to  amuse  her.    She  con 
fronted  him  with  a  smile.     "It  was  an  old  thing  any 
way,"  she  said.    And  there  was  a  quite  evident  tender 
ness  in  her  smile  as  she  considered  his  slightly  damaged 
arm.    Buckhannon  had  got  to  his  feet  and  had  thrust  his 
arm  forward,  honestly  anxious  to  have  the  ordeal  over 
with  as  soon  as  might  be.     But  Belle  would  not  have 
it  this  way. 

"Sit  down  again,"  she  said,  and  she  lightly  pushed  him 
into  the  chair.  In  an  instant  she  was  kneeling  in  front 
of  him. 

This  day  was  warm.  Belle  was  as  diaphanously  clad 
as  any  woman  had  a  right  to  be.  She  had  tossed  her 
hat  and  her  gloves  aside  at  once  on  entering  the  room. 

Buckhannon  looked  down  on  her  darkly  russet  hair, 
her  rounded  shoulder.  He  had  never  noticed  before  how 
clean  she  was  and  how  perfect  physically.  Her  arms 
and  hands  were  very  fine.  He  found  all  this  touching, 
for  he  guessed  that  she  had  been  poor  and  that  there 
had  been  more  tragedy  in  her  life  than  happiness.  He 

195 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

admired  her.  He  felt  sorry  for  her.  It  gave  him  a 
queer  mingling  of  remorse  and  desire  when  he  thought 
that  this  woman  had  kissed  him,  and  that  now  she  was 
— for  want  of  a  better  expression — "binding  up  his 
wounds." 

She  was  very  attentive  about  her  task.  She  poured 
peroxide  on  the  injured  place,  then  deftly  bandaged  it 
with  the  thin  stuff  of  the  torn  garment. 

"This  is  too  kind  of  you,"  he  said. 

"It's  you  who  are  kind,  and  was  kind,"  she  said, 
frankly  clinging  to  his  bare  forearm  with  her  soft,  strong 
fingers.  She  looked  at  him,  and  her  smile  had  as  if  re 
treated.  "If  every  one  was  as  kind  as  you " 


"Oh,  you  mean  about  the  trunk.     Why  you " 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean." 

"Then  what?" 

"You  never  told  them,"  she  said. 

"Never  told  them  what?" 

"About — that  first  time  we  saw  each  other.  You 
know !"  Now  she  smiled  a  little,  but  her  mood  con 
tinued  sober.  "You  won't  ever  tell  them,  will  you,  dear?" 

There  was  just  a  touch  of  the  motherly  in  her  use 
of  the  "dear,"  enough  to  let  it  pass  without  suspicion, 
and  yet  with  an  after-flavor  to  it  of  something  else. 

"Of  course  I  won't,"  said  Buckhannon. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Belle,  softly.  "I  sort  of  felt 
that  you  were  going  to  get  yourself  in  bad." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

She  didn't  answer  at  once.  There  were  no  tears  in 
her  deep  eyes,  but  there  was  an  expression  of  tears 

196 


— The  Tempting  of  Samson 

about  her  highly  expressive  mouth.  She  gave  a  single 
slight  toss  of  her  head  as  if  she  and  her  own  griefs 
were  not  worth  considering. 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  undergo  all  that  I've  suffered 
on  account  of  this  house" — her  voice  began  to  break  a 
little — "not  for  a  thousand — no,  nor  for  a  million — dol 
lars  I  wouldn't,"  she  said.  And  she  put  her  cheek  against 
Buckhannon's  arm,  hiding  her  head  against  his  knees. 
Her  shoulders  began  to  shake — in  spite  of  her  manifest 
efforts  to  keep  them  still. 

"Belle,"  said  Buckhannon. 

She  did  not  reply. 

"Belle,  listen !  Everything's  going  to  be  all  right  now. 
I  know  a  little  of  what  you've  been  up  against.  But 
that's  all  over  now.  I  heard  Melissine  talking  about  it 
to — to  Mr.  Partridge.  He's  just  like  a  member  of  the 
family,  you  know,  and  he's  as  good  as  anybody.  He's 
a  darn  sight  better  than  most  people  I've  ever  met.  And 
you're  all  going  to  live  here  together." 

"But  it's  on  your  account,"  said  Belle. 

"How,  on  my  account?" 

"That's  just  it.  You're  so  young,  and  innocent,  and 
everything,  and  you  don't  know  what  you're  up  against." 

"I'm  not  so  young,  and  I'm  not  so  innocent,"  Buck 
hannon  began. 

"But  you  are." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?  And  what  is  it  that  I'm 
up  against  ?  Go  on,  tell  me !" 

Belle  turned  slightly,  but  she  drew  Buckhannon's  bare 
arm  with  her,  over  her  shoulder,  against  her  neck.  She 

197 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

appeared    lost  in    reflection,    she    was    debating    with 
herself. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  some  of  the  things  that  have 
been  said  about  this  house,"  she  said,  wistfully.  "You 
must  have  heard  enough  to  warn  any  ordinary  man. 
But  you're  not  ordinary.  You're  so  young,  and  roman 
tic,  and  generous.  You're  an  artist.  I  suppose  nothing 
would  make  any  difference  to  you,  anyway;  and  after 
all " 

She  paused  again  to  reflect. 

"I  want  you  to  go  ahead  and  tell  me  what  you  know,5* 
said  Buckhannon.  "I  tell  you,  I'm  no  kid."  He  tried 
to  make  her  smile  again.  "What's  the  matter?  Can't 
you  trust  me  ?" 

"I  can't  trust  myself,"  she  murmured.  "I  can't  trust 
others."  She  turned.  She  was  on  her  knees  again.  Her 
face  was  close  to  his.  All  her  movements  were  so  smooth 
and  quick  that  there  was  never  time  to  parry,  even  where 
there  was  a  will  to  parry.  "It's  you  who  are  too  trust 
ful,"  she  said.  "Do  you  really  believe  that  thing  about 
Partridge  being  my  father?" 

"Why — since  you  speak  about  it,"  he  stammered. 

"You  don't  believe  it.    Tell  me  you  don't." 

"Why,  no;  of  course  not." 

She  whispered,  but  her  voice  continued  warmly  vibrant 
-^-like  notes  on  the  d-str'mg  of  a  violin. 

"Hasn't  Partridge  ever  told  you  about  some  mystery 
— some  mystery  that  he  wouldn't  have  poor  little  Melis- 
sine  learn  about — not  for  worlds?" 

"Something  like  that,"  said  Buckhannon  softly. 
198 


— The  Tempting  of  Samson 

"Haven't  you  guessed  what  it  is?" 

"No;  I  didn't  care." 

Something  in  his  tone  warned  her  to  plead,  so  she 
pleaded.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "I  know  that  you  think  I 
shouldn't  say  anything  about  it.  And  I  suppose  I  hadn't 
ought  to.  But  you  know — don't  you,  dear? — that  I 
wouldn't  be  doing  it  if  I  didn't  care  for  you  so  much. 
But  I  do  care  for  you.  You  know  that.  Don't  you, 
dear?  I've  cared  for  you  from  the  very  first  time  that 
I  ever  saw  you.  And  I've  wanted  so  to  shield  you,  and 
protect  you  from  pain.H 

She  put  her  hand  against  his  cheek  and  caressed  him, 
and  Buckhannon,  feeling  guilty  but  doing  it  anyway, 
put  his  free  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  appreciate  it,"  he  said.  "I'm  just  as  grateful  as  I 
can  be.  I  think  you're  mighty  beautiful  and  good." 

"You're  nothing  but  a  child,"  she  said ;  "a  dear,  sweet, 
innocent  child,  who  wouldn't  think  bad  of  anybody  no 
matter  what  they  did."  She  playfully  pressed  his  face 
against  her  own.  She  murmured  that  he  was  a  darling. 

"What  was  that  thing  you  were  going  to  tell  me?" 
Buckhannon  asked.  There  was  an  obsession  of  anxiety 
in  his  mind  that  blurred  all  else.  What  was  she  hinting 
at?  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  wanting  to  know. 
He  felt  that  he  must  know.  He  would  make  her  tell. 

But  Belle  was  again  deep  in  reflection.  At  any  rate, 
she  was  silent. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said. 

She  still  took  her  time.  Her  breath  traveled  lightly 
199 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

over  Buckhannon's  cheek  and  neck,  giving  him  tiny  re 
current  spasms  of  gooseflesh. 

"Did  Partridge  ever  tell  you?"  she  asked,  almost  in- 
audibly,  "anything  about  Melissine's  mother?" 

"No." 

"You  knew  that  she  was  a  French  actress  ?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"There,  I've  hurt  you,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  She 
clasped  him  about  the  neck,  not  savagely,  but  tenderly. 
Her  eyes  were  very  close  to  his.  Her  lips  were  almost 
touching  his  lips.  "Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  I 
could  talk  to  you  like  this  and  take  all  this  risk  if  I 
didn't  love  you  so?" 

"I  don't  know  yet  what  it's  all  about,"  said  Buckhan- 
non,  desperately. 

"That's  because  you — you  don't  know  yet  the  meaning 
of  passion,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco;  "just  plain,  old-fash 
ioned  passion,  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world — when  it's 
real.  You  darling,  when  it  is  real,  why,  it'd  even  change 
a  thing  like  Partridge  into  a  man.  It  would've — twenty 
years  ago.  Can't  you  understand?" 

Buckhannon  got  to  his  feet.  His  mind  was  in  a  daze. 
He  couldn't — he  wouldn't — understand. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WOMAN  !     WOMAN  !      WHO  ART  THOU  ? 

EVENTS  were  to  carry  Eugene  Buckhannon  to  his 
home  in  Tennessee.  He  had  to  go  out  there  to 
see  his  people.  He  wasn't  the  boy  to  do  anything 
in  secret.  Neither  was  he,  for  the  matter  of  that,  one 
to  let  his  family  interfere  in  an  affair  of  heart  and  con 
science.  But  he  wanted  to  see  his  family.  He  had  to 
see  them.  He  had  to  withdraw — as  one  might  to  a 
monastery  or  any  other  retreat — where  it  would  be  pos 
sible  to  meditate,  meditate  with  his  feet  sound-planted 
on  familiar  rock. 

It  was  a  long  ride  to  Tennessee — twenty- four  hours  in 
the  fastest  express  he  could  get  out  of  New  York — and 
ordinarily  this  interval  would  have  served  the  purposes 
of  reflection  as  a  preliminary  to  wider  breedings  later 
on. 

But  it  was  not  to  be  so  for  him.  Through  the  long 
ride  his  brain  was  feverish.  He  was  haunted  by  fever 
ish  broodings.  Visions  came  to  keep  him  company. 

He  sat  by  his  window.  He  spoke  to  no  one.  He  heard 
no  thing  that  was  said  about  him.  His  optic  nerve 
did  respond  to  the  mountains,  the  rivers,  the  fat  farms, 
and  the  smoking  cities  that  constituted  his  own,  his  na- 

2OI 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

tive  land.  The  ears  of  his  head  did  record  an  occa 
sional  request  for  tickets,  or  a  call  to  the  dining-car— • 
things  like  that.  But  these  were  not  really  the  things 
that  he  saw  and  heard. 

Almost  all  the  time  it  was  Cinnamon  Street  that 
stretched  its  vista  away  before  the  eyes  of  his  mind, 
and  old  No.  6,  and  the  dark  mysteries  of  it — Partridge 
and  Belle  and  the  late  Nathan  Tyrone,  the  chapel  in  the 
graveyard  next  door;  these,  and  then  Paris — especially 
Paris  aswoon  in  the  gold  and  blue  of  an  autumn  sunset, 
Seine  all  shimmering,  Notre  Dame  rearing  aloft  like 
God's  own  footstool!  or  the  interior  of  Notre  Dame — 
dim  and  sonorous  with  holy  light  and  sound,  where  he 
and  Melissine  held  silent,  enchanted  conversation.  And 
Melissine  was  the  greatest  mystery  of  all. 

The  marvel  of  Melissine  was  strong  upon  him.  Eyes 
open  or  eyes  closed,  he  could  see  her.  She  was  a  pres 
ence  even  in  his  sleep;  for  he  had  reached  that  state 
of  concentrated  interest  where  the  mind  refuses  to  let 
go.  A  very  dangerous  state  of  mind — one  accountable 
for  obsessions,  genius,  and  lunacy — but  happily  in  most 
cases  soon  ended. 

But  there  was  obsession  here  for  Buckhannon  now. 
There  often  is  when  a  youth  is  very  much  in  love.  The 
wild  elk  that  runs  across  vast  stretches  of  savage  moun 
tain  to  seek  his  mate  and  gives  no  thought  to  drink 
and  food  has  his  human  counterpart.  There  is  the  same 
fierceness,  the  same  readiness  to  fight  anything  under 
heaven,  the  same  frantic  unrest. 

Buckhannon  felt  this  frantic  unrest.  He  had  a  tor.- 
202 


Woman!  Woman!  Who  Art  Thou? 

turing  sense  that  the  world  was  wrong  and  that  he  would 
have  to  set  it  right.  It  couldn't  be  right  until  he  was 
happily  married  to  Melissine  and  settled  down.  But 
could  this  ever  be?  Wasn't  love  and  marriage  a  ter 
rible  adventure  under  even  the  most  favorable  condi 
tions,  when  there  was  no  temperament  to  speak  of? 

No,  not  always. 

Just  across  the  aisle  from  where  he  sat  there  was  a 
dowdy,  placid  couple,  fat  and  middle-aged,  with  a  fat 
and  sticky  child  who  squirmed  and  whined  and  made 
life  a  misery  for  all  about  him  except  the  parents  them 
selves.  How  fortunate  these  people  were,  Buckhannon 
opined.  What  mystery  had  ever  beset  this  woman? 
What  fiery  torment  had  ever  driven  this  man  to  a  wild- 
stag  charge  across  untamed  mountains? 

But,  now  that  he  thought  of  it,  there  were  quite  a 
few  Buckhannons  living  in  the  home  county  who  them 
selves  were  married.  Subconsciously  he  knew  that  these 
were  men  and  women  like  himself,  too — fighters  and 
marauders,  lovers  of  beautiful  mates,  dreamers  of 
dreams,  takers  of  chances.  They  were  not  like  this 
couple  across  the  aisle.  And  yet  they  also  were  happily 
married.  They  also  were  substantial,  placid  to  a  de 
gree.  They  had  weathered  the  storm  of  marriage,  what 
ever  it  was.  Nothing  had  happened  to  them  either,  seem 
ingly,  but  parenthood. 

The  thought  consoled  him  to  some  extent.  Some  off 
these  relatives  of  his  had  traveled  far  for  wife  or  hus 
band.  There  had  been  romance  all  right.  And  physical 
beauty  graded  high  in  the  Buckhannon  clan. 

203 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Time  enough  that  he  should  get  into  the  sure  sanity 
of  the  home  of  his  youth.  His  mother  was  there  to 
greet  him.  It  struck  him  with  a  species  of  wonder  that 
once  she  had  been  a  girl  and  that  his  father  had  come 
courting  her.  Here  were  the  other  Buckhannons.  All 
of  these  loved  him  as  simply  and  naturally,  and  as  deeply, 
as  they  loved  America  and  God.  But  to  none  of  these 
good  people,  whom  Buckhannon  himself  so  deeply  loved, 
could  he  say  a  word  about  the  tremendous  adventure 
upon  which  he  was  embarked. 

Even  when  his  mother  reflected  aloud  on  the  fine 
qualities  of  this  or  that  girl  of  the  neighborhood  he  had 
nothing  to  say.  Not  along  those  lines.  He  talked  about 
his  career.  He  wanted  to  become  the  greatest  architect 
that  the  world  had  ever  known.  He  had  a  great  ten 
derness  for  his  mother.  But  he  was  not  the  kind  to 
consult  her  on  a  question  like  this.  Anyway,  he  would 
not  have  troubled  her  for  anything  in  the  world.  And 
this  story  of  his  would  have  troubled  her.  She  could 
not  have  understood.  He  himself  could  not  understand. 

He  walked.  He  fished.  He  rode  a  little.  He  drove 
his  brother's  second-best  car  over  many  a  lonely  mile. 
Here  were  grass  and  trees  whose  very  smell  was  a  lan 
guage  that  spoke  of  old  hopes  and  ambitions  and  revived 
the  splendid,  tender  mysteries  of  adolescence.  Here  were 
the  roads  and  the  dreams  he  had  followed  in  his  earlier 
day,  when  all  of  life  that  lay  ahead  of  him  was  dimly 
visioned  as  the  thing  that  life  had  become  for  him  now 
— haunted,  beautiful,  full  of  undefined  perils. 

What  were  these  perils  ? 

204 


Woman!  Woman!  Who  Art  Thou? 

He  tried  to  tell  himself  that  there  were  none.  But 
the  conviction  persisted.  Perils  there  were. 

More  and  more  insistently  his  mind  reverted  to  the 
time  when  he  had  come  into  the  hall  of  No.  6  Cinnamon 
Street  with  Melissine  and  old  Goodenough — Goodenough 
bringing  with  him,  as  from  one  poet  to  another,  that 
touching  and  beautiful  tribute  of  his,  the  wreath  of 
immortelles. 

One  would  have  said  that  there  couldn't  have  been  an 
occasion  more  provocative  of  peace  and  good-will. 

And  yet  there  was  the  scene  he  had  witnessed : 

Partridge  standing  there  with  a  clinging  hand  on  the 
draperies,  looking  like  a  man  who  had  been  frozen  to 
death  in  a  moment  of  alarm;  and  then  Mme.  Jenesco 
standing  over  there,  distilling  from  her  presence  a  he- 
knew-not-what  of  red  mirth,  a  sort  of  scarlet  merriment. 

The  scene  had  subtly  shifted: 

There  was  Mme.  Jenesco  staring  at  old  Goodenough, 
and  old  Goodenough  staring  at  Mme.  Jenesco.  A  quaver 
of  candle-light,  a  coagulation  of  shadows — these  crea 
tures  themselves  a  mere  quaver  of  candle-light  and 
coagulation  of  shadows.  There  was  something  about  it 
all  to  remind  him  of  Amy  Lowell's  description  in  "The 
Crossroads" : 

"He  wavers  like  smoke  in  the  buffeting  wind.  His 
fingers  blow  out  like  smoke,  his  head  ripples  in  the  gale 
...  he  stands,  and  watches  another  quavering  figure 
drifting  down  the  Wayfleet  road  .  .  ." 

There  had  been  that  tense  moment — only  a  moment, 
but  sufficient  to  furnish  a  memory  that  might  be  ever- 

205 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

lasting;  then  he  and  Melissine  and  Goodenough  had  gone 
through  the  hall  to  the  place  where  Goodenough  had  de 
posited  his  wreath  and  also  a  tear  or  two. 

Mme.  Jenesco,  like  a  sable  ambassadress  from  some 
Court  of  Shadows,  was  there  for  the  funeral.  She  was 
there  like  Delilah — like  Lilith — before  he  left  for  Ten 
nessee.  Always  flitting,  always  mysterious,  seductive, 
vicious,  sympathetic,  always  suggestive  of  dark  and  lurid 
secrets,  unexplained — except  possibly  to  Partridge.  Who 
was  she  ?  What  was  she  ?  Where  did  she  come  from  ? 
— and  why  ? — and,  God  in  heaven ! — what  had  she  meant 
when  she  spoke  with  reference  to  Melissine? 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

CROSS-EXAMINED 

BUCKHANNON  might  have  been  more  troubled 
yet  had  he  known  how  events  at  No.  6  Cinnamon 
Street  were  shaping  themselves.  More  than  ever 
No.  6  had  become  the  house  of  a  bad  name.  For  now 
the  Woman  in  Black  had  come  to  live  there.  Almost 
every  day  they  could  see  her  come  and  go — the  druggist 
could,  and  Jerome  Hickcock  the  Cop,  and  Tony  Zam- 
boni  and  his  people,  they  who  believed  in  the  Evil  Eye. 
Only  for  Goodenough,  the  poetic  cabby,  did  the  old 
place  appear  to  have  become  something  finer,  something 
gentler.  Or,  perhaps,  the  old  place  had  always  been 
something  fine  and  gentle  for  Goodenough — for  that 
part  of  Goodenough,  at  least,  which  did  not  drink — the 
part  of  him  that  loved  weird  verse  and  mooned  over  the 
moss-grown  tombstones  in  the  chapel-yard. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,"  says  Hickcock,  "and  what's 
this  I  hear?" 

"And  what  is  it  that  you  have  heard  ?"  demands  Good- 
enough. 

"Your  goin'  into  that  place." 

"It  was  to  honor  the  dead." 

"If  I'd  have  thought  of  it,  I'd  have  tried  it  myself/" 
and  Hickcock  displays  a  glint  of  cunning  envy. 

207 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"It's  not  too  late.    I'll  show  you  where  he  was  buried." 

"I'm  not  talkin'  about  that.  It's  about  gettin'  into  the 
house  I'm  talkin'  about.  I've  been  lookin'  for  the  chance 
these  seventeen  years.  Go  on.  Slip  me  an  earful." 

"I'll  slip  you  an  earful — a  dead  man  with  a  smile  on 
his  face,  the  picture  hanging  on  the  wall  of  a  woman 
who  smiles  back  at  him.  And  isn't  that  the  end  of  all 
life,  no  matter  how  full  of  trouble  it  has  been?" 

"Go  on,  you  old  rummy ;  tell  me  about  the  little  blonde 
and  the  Woman  in  Black." 

"They're  both  women — mortal  women — who  yesterday 
were  angels  unsullied  and  unborn  and  who  to-morrow 
will  return  to  the  bright  ethereal  region  whence  they 
came." 

All  of  this  is  above  Hickcock's  head. 

"I  know  this,"  he  says.  "If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  back 
up  the  wagon  to  the  front  door  of  the  old  dump  and 
I'd  give  them  all  a  ride.  There  has  been  somethin' 
crooked  about  that  bird-cage  all  along.  It's  gettin'  worse." 

Which  shows  •  that  even  men  like  Jerome  Hickcock 
may  be  partly  right.  Even  Partridge  would  have  agreed 
with  him  in  one  respect : 

Things  were  getting  worse. 

"Do  you  love  me?  Will  you  love  me  always?" 
This  from  Mme.  Jenesco,  one  day  after  Buckhannon 
had  disappeared  on  his  visit  home.  Into  this  sudden 
and  chasmic  void  in  Melissine's  life  Mme.  Jenesco  had 
come.  Melissine  had  happened  on  Mme.  Jenesco  and 
Partridge  in  the  drawing-room  of  No.  6  quite  by  acci- 

208 


Cross-Examined 

dent.  It  was  evident  to  Melissine  that  they  had  been 
talking  again  about  serious  things,  just  as  they  had 
been  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen  them  together — 
Partridge  pale  and  troubled,  Mme.  Jenesco  somehow 
appearing  now  as  a  consoler.  Melissine  had  asked  Par 
tridge  what  the  trouble  was,  but  Partridge  couldn't  or 
wouldn't  tell. 

"You  may  leave  us,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco  to  Partridge. 

Partridge  bowed  his  head  and  left,  with  one  linger 
ing  glance  at  Melissine.  And  this  time  Melissine  had 
remained  there  alone — alone  for  the  first  time — with  the 
Woman  in  Black.  She  wasn't  the  Woman  in  Black 
for  Melissine,  but  she  nonetheless  was  a  creature  of  mys 
tery,  alluring  as  all  mysteries  are.  Also  there  was  a 
fragrance  about  Mme.  Jenesco,  and  a  warmth,  and  that 
lithe  animal  beauty  that  made  her  attractive  from  a 
purely  physical  standpoint — an  attraction  that  Melissine 
couldn't  have  explained  at  all,  any  more  than  a  child 
could  explain  the  attractiveness  of  a  strong,  lithe  cat; 
any  more  than  a  woman,  perhaps,  could  explain  the 
fascination  of  smooth,  animal-tainted  furs.  Atavism, 
maybe. 

So  far  as  Melissine  was  concerned,  this  fascination 
was  immeasurably  increased  when  she  felt  Mme.  Jenes- 
co's  arms  about  her,  when  she  became  conscious,  vividly 
and  immediately,  of  Mme.  Jenesco's  softness,  warmth, 
perfume,  strength,  her  tingling  magnetism;  also  some 
thing  of  her  greater  maturity,  her  possession  of  secret 
wisdom,  her  familiarity  with  the  world  as  the  world 
existed  outside  of  No.  6  and  Melissine's  ken. 

209 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Do  you  love  me?  Will  you  love  me  always?"  Mme. 
Jenesco  asked. 

Melissine's  first  answer  had  been  merely  an  answer  of 
the  eyes.  With  Mme.  Jenesco's  arms  about  her  she  had 
looked  up  into  Mme.  Jenesco's  face.  Like  Little  Red 
Riding  Hood,  Melissine  might  have  said:  "How  black 
your  eyes  are!  How  red  your  mouth  is!"  But  of  this 
no  hint  in  Melissine's  eyes. 

"I  do  love  you,"  said  Melissine.  "I  am  sure  that  I 
shall  love  you  always." 

For  a  moment  or  longer,  Mme.  Jenesco's  red,  red  lips 
breathed  on  Melissine's  temple — a  hot  and  agitated  breath 
that  blew  into  Melissine's  innermost  being  a  vague 
trouble. 

"Has  Partridge  told  you  anything  about  why  I  had 
decided  to  come  here  to  live?"  Belle  asked. 

"No."     But  Melissine  colored  slightly. 

"You've  guessed." 

"I  understood — but  this  would  make  me  love  you  if 
nothing  else  did — that  you  were  his  daughter." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"You're  very  fond  of  Partridge,  ain't  you,  dear?" 

"Yes." 

"Has  Partridge  talked  very  much  to  Mr.  Buckhan- 
non?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Told  him  everything?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Haven't  you  ever  wondered  why  you  were  brought 
210 


Cross-Examined 

up  so  strange?  You  know — not  like  other  girls — kept 
to  yourself,  and  everything  like  that." 

"I  never  did  wonder  about  it.  I  supposed  it  was  be 
cause  father  wished  it  that  way.  He  kept  to  himself — 
never  went  with  other  men.  We  were  happy  together. 
He  was  always  so  kind,  so  considerate.  For  a  while  we 
lived  in  a  house  in  the  country,  over  in  France;  and 
after  that  I  was  in  a  convent  for  a  good  many  years. 
So  I  never  had  the  chance  to  go  about  very  much.  I 
was  happy.  I've  been  happiest  of  all  while  I  was  liv 
ing  here,  and  he  was  alive." 

"And  Partridge;  where  was  he  all  this  time?" 

"Always  there,"  said  Melissine;  "even  more  than  my 
father  was,  for  Partridge  didn't  have  any  literary  work 
to  think  about.  Dear  old  Partridge!  Why,  I  even 
knew  him  and  loved  him  before  I  loved  my  father.  I 
can  remember  yet,  when  I  was  a  little,  little  girl,  and  old 
Partridge  would  come  to  see  me — so  tender,  so  kind——" 

"Did  he  ever  tell  you  about  your  mother?" 

"Who?  Partridge?  Oh,  yes!  He  used  to  tell  me 
how  much  I  was  like  her,  everything  like  that." 

"He  told  you  that  he — was  in  love  with  her?  I  mean 
— that  he  loved  her  very  much  ?" 

"I  know  that  he  must  have  been  devoted.  He  couldn't 
have  been  anything  else.  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

Belle  devoted  several  seconds  to  thought.  Melissine 
stirred  uneasily.  Melissine  got  up  and  went  over  to  the 
dodr.  She  listened  there— perhaps  as  a  pretense  to 
cover  some  thinking  of  her  own.  "I  thought  I  heard 

211 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

him  call,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  sought  Mme.  Jenesco's, 
but  Mme.  Jenesco  looked  away. 

"We  were  talking  about  Partridge  being  my  father," 
said  Mme.  Jenesco,  guardedly.  "How  would  you  feel — 
if  he  were  yours  ?" 

"How  would  I  feel — if  Partridge  were  my  father?" 

"Yes !" 

"How  absurd!" 

"Well,  how  would  you  feel  about  it?" 

That  was  a  poser,  and  Melissine  had  to  think ;  but  not 
for  long.  "I'd  feel  that  I  had  one  of  the  finest  fathers 
in  the  world,"  she  said,  without  reservation. 

"Even  if  he  is  a  servant?" 

"That's  no  disgrace.  He's  been  a  good  servant.  More 
than  that,  he's  been  a  trusted  friend." 

"I  know,"  said  Belle.  "That  sounds  good.  But  what 
would  Mr.  Buckhannon  think  about  it?  And  what 
would  that  swell  family  of  his  think  about  it?  How 
would  they  like  to  have  him  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
servant?  And  do  you  think  it'd  be  fair  to  him  to  let 
him  do  it?" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MME.  JENESCO  GENERALIZES 

THEY  went  over  and  sat  down  together  on  a  high- 
backed  sofa.  Mme.  Jenesco  appeared  to  be  as 
deeply  fascinated  with  Melissine  as  Melissine  was 
with  Mme.  Jenesco.  The  elder  woman  couldn't  keep 
her  eyes  from  Melissine's  face,  now — her  hair,  her  cloth 
ing;  or  her  hands  either,  for  that  matter.  All  the  time 
that  they  were  sitting  there  together  Mme.  Jenesco  was 
stroking  Melissine's  floss  of  curls,  embracing  Melissine's 
tender  shoulders,  partaking  of  Melissine's  special  at 
mosphere  much  as  a  lioness  in  the  desert  might  savor 
for  the  first  time  the  soul-upsetting  spoor  of  a  man. 
There  was  that  same  suggestion  of  a  luxurious  delight — 
of  a  delight  hued  with  a  curious  wonder — of  aroused 
appetite,  or  call  it  ambition,  that  the  creature  of  a  lower 
order  may  feel  on  the  trail  of  something  higher. 

"I  don't  know  about  Mr.  Buckhannon's  family,"  said 
Melissine;  "but  I  don't  think  it  would  make  any  dif 
ference  with  Mr.  Buckhannon  himself.  He  thinks  as 
much  of  Partridge  as  I  do.  And,  anyway,  what  differ 
ence  do  such  things  make  so  long  as  people  love  each 
other?" 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  panting  effort. 
213 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Is  he  the  first  one  you  were  ever  in  love  with  ?"  Mme. 
Jenesco  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Melissine  interpreted  the  look 
in  her  eyes.  "How  could  I  have  loved  any  one  else? 
There  is  only  one  of  him.  How  could  there  ever  be  any 
other  than  a  first?  No  girl  could  love  a  boy,  and  then 
love  some  other  boy  afterward." 

'TPoor  little  goose,"  Mme.  Jenesco  exclaimed.  She 
was  so  deeply  moved  that  she  was  half-way  between 
laughter  and  tears.  "Poor  little  goose !  For  God's  sake, 
where  did  you  get  that  ?  You  make  me  think  I  was  just 
about  due.  Why,  something  terrible  might  have  hap 
pened  to  you.  Don't  you  know  anything  at  all?" 

"I  know  that  love  is  a  power  for  good,"  said  Melis 
sine  steadily. 

"Who  told  you  that,  this  young  Buckhannon?" 

"I  didn't  have  to  be  told.  It's  in  every  book  I've 
ever  read.  And  now  I  have  felt  it  in  myself—oh,  a 
power  to  perform  miracles." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"Oh,  you  mean — that  it  isn't  so  ?" 

"You  said  it." 

"But  you  couldn't  have  known — cannot  know — what 
love  is." 

"Isn't  she  the  sketch?"  demanded  Mme.  Jenesco  of 
an  unseen  audience.  "Listen,  silly!  There's  nothing  in 
all  this  love-talk.  Not  know  what  love  is?  No  woman 
knows  better.  Oh,  I  know  it's  sweet  to  be  in  love  with 

214 


Mme.  Jenesco  Generalizes 

some  nice,  handsome  boy — especially  when  it's  the  first 
time,  like  you  say  it  is  with  you.  But  even  that  sort  of 
love  is  just  an  accident.  When  it  isn't  Dick,  it's  Ed; 
and  when  it  isn't  Ed,  it's  Jim — one  at  a  time,  or  even 
all  together.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  dearest." 

And  there  was  something  like  real  affection  in  the 
way  Mme.  Jenesco  pressed  Melissine's  head  to  her 
bosom. 

"No!  No!  No!"  panted  Melissine,  but  she  left  her 
head  where  it  was  the  better  to  hide  her  troubled  face. 

"They're  all  alike,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco  soothingly. 
"Mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  this  Buck- 
hannon  boy  of  yours.  Money  isn't  everything.  Looks 
count  for  something.  But  it's  money  in  the  long  run. 
It  is  for  us  girls.  That's  all  we  ever  get  out  of  it.  Un 
derstand  me,  sweetheart.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  It's  the  good  old  coin  that  counts.  I  know!  I 
know!  You're  young.  I  was  young  like  you  myself, 
once.  I  had  the  same  sort  of  ideas.  And  I'm  not  say 
ing  now  that  a  little  love  doesn't  help." 

Melissine  drew  back  a  little.  "Helps!"  she  exclaimed 
soberly.  "Love's  everything." 

Mme.  Jenesco  tossed  her  head.  She  saw  that  it  was 
no  use  arguing  with  the  child — not  along  this  line.  But 
she  undertook  a  fresh  line. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  Mr.  Buckhannon — 
what's  his  name,  Eugene? — do  you  suppose  that  'Gene 
feels  the  same  way  as  you  do  about  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  he's  never  loved  any  girl  but  you?" 
215 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  think  that  all  men  are  pure  and  straight, 
and  all  that  sort  of  bunk  ?" 

"I  don't  think  that  you  should  call  it  'bunk.' " 

"Well,  call  it  by  any  name  you  want  to,  sweetheart. 
Don't  you  think  that  men  are  men,  and  have  their  little 
love  affairs  on  the  side,  and  like  a  little  change  now  and 
then?" 

Melissine  didn't  shift  her  position  immediately,  but 
she  was  freezing. 

"I  know  they  used  to  be  like  that,"  she  said,  in  a 
small  but  steady  voice.  "And  I  suppose  that  some  still 
are  like  that.  I've  read  a  lot.  Judge  Bancroft,  even, 
has  said  something  like  that  in  a  book — a  law-book — that 
he  wrote  and  gave  to  grandfather."  Melissine  said  this, 
apparently,  in  some  vague  effort  to  justify  Mme.  Jenes- 
co's  speech  in  her  own  judgment.  "But  all  men  are  not 
like  that." 

"Oh,  ain't  they!" 

"No." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  hear  of  one  who  wasn't." 

"There's  my  father,"  said  Melissine.  "And  there's 
Partridge."  Her  lip  was  quivering.  She  desisted.  It 
was  painful  for  her  to  discuss  such  matters.  She  would 
have  liked  to  add  the  name  of  Buckhannon  to  her  calen 
dar  of  saints.  But  Melissine  had  said  enough. 

"Your  father,"  said  Belle;  "and  Partridge!"  She 
paused  on  the  point  of  saying  something,  changed  her 
mind.  "Did  you  ever  wonder,"  she  asked,  "why  this 
old  house  has  a  bad  name  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

216 


Mme.  Jenesco  Generalize* 

"Has  it  got  a  bad  name?" 

"I'll  say  it  has!  You  never  noticed  how  everybody 
stares  ?" 

"I  thought,"  said  Melissine,  "it  was  just  because — 
just  because — we  were  different." 

"Maybe,"  said  Belle,  "it  was  because  you  weren't  so 
different — the  men,  I  mean.  That's  what  I've  been  talk 
ing  about.  Listen,  sweetheart,  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for 
the  world.  I  love  you  just  as  much  as  if  I  was  you  and 
you  was  me — if  you  get  what  I  mean." 

"But  I  don't  get  what  you  mean,"  said  Melissine,  get 
ting  to  her  feet  and  moving  away.  But  she  was  care 
ful  to  make  her  withdrawal  appear  unconscious,  unpre 
meditated.  "I've  scarcely  understood  a  word  of  all  the 
things  you've  said  since  we  were  here  together.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  people,  and  to  say  that  they're  bad 
when  they're  not.  I'm  just  as  glad  to  have  you  here 
as  I  can  be.  I  love  Partridge  and  I  want  you  both 
to  be  happy.  That  was  why  I  was  so  glad  to  have  you 
come  here  to  live;  but  I  want  to  be  glad  on  my  own 
account,  too " 

"You'll  learn,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco,  complacently. 

"There  are  things  that  I  don't  want  to  learn,"  Melis 
sine  retorted,  warmly. 

"But  there  are  things  that  we  all  have  to  learn,"  Mme. 
Jenesco  replied  without  heat.  "We  all  have  times  when 
we  dream.  Sooner  or  later  we  all  have  to  get  waked 
up.  And  it  does  hurt,  sometimes.  I'll  say  it  does.  I 
know.  But  the  sooner  we're  waked  up  the  sooner  we 
get  wise,  and  there's  something  in  that." 

217 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Partridge  appeared  just  then  at  the  door.  Partridge 
was  white  and  tremulous. 

"Luncheon  is  served,"  he  said. 

Mme.  Jenesco  smiled.  She  hummed  a  tune.  She 
arose  gracefully  and  slipped  her  arm  about  Melissine's 
slim  waist. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
"AND  ON  MY  SERVANTS " 

1HAD    thought/'    said    Partridge,    when    he    and 
Melissine  were  alone  that  evening,  "that  possibly 
you  would  like  to  go  away  to  a  school — a  finishing 
school.     I  have  heard  of  such — where  young  ladies  go — 
chiefly,  I  believe,  to  profit  by  the  society  of  other  young 
ladies." 

"And  leave  you?"  cried  Melissine.  Her  voice  was  as 
soft  and  warm  as  the  candle-light,  and  had  the  same 
sort  of  flicker  in  it. 

"Yes.     I  am  used  to  that." 

"And  you  really  wish  me  to?" 

"I  think,  if  you  will  permit  me " 

Partridge  wavered.  He  brought  a  water  carafe  and 
would  have  filled  Melissine's  glass.  But  Melissine  caught 
him  by  the  wrist.  Their  eyes  met.  A  most  extraordi 
nary  scene  for  one  not  aware  of  all  the  circumstances — 
Melissine  at  her  dinner,  alone;  Partridge,  the  old  butler, 
waiting  on  her  with  all  formality.  Partridge  had  cooked 
this  omelet  as  well  as  served  it.  Partridge  had  bought 
the  milk  that  filled  Melissine's  other  glass.  A  great 
stickler  for  form  was  Partridge.  Not  for  the  world 
would  he  have  seated  himself  at  table  with  Miss  Tyrone 
— not  during  the  formal  dinner  hour. 

219 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Now,  here  was  his  mistress,  great-grand-child  of  the 
first  Tyrone  he  had  ever  served,  holding  him  by  the 
wrist,  flaming  affection  up  at  him. 

"Don't  you  believe  in  me  any  more?  Don't  you  want 
to  have  me  with  you  any  more?  Don't  you  like  me  any 
more?" 

Partridge  waited  with  mellow  patience  until  she  loosed 
him.  So  would  he  have  waited  had  she  been  six,  or 
twenty-six.  She  released  his  wrist.  He  filled  her  water- 
glass. 

"I  think,  if  you  will  permit  me,"  he  proceeded,  "it 
would  be  better  if  you  were  to  have  a  change." 

"It  looks,"  she  said  whimsically,  "as  if  I  were  to  get 
about  all  the  change  I  need  right  here — now  that  we 
have  Mme.  Jenesco.  She  wanted  me  to  go  out  with 
her  to-night  to  dinner  and  a  theater.  That  zvould  have 
been  a  change."  She  was  aware  that  Partridge  wasn't 
happy.  She  wished  to  console  and  encourage  him. 
"She's  a  fine  woman.  Why  didn't  you  ever  tell  me  that 
you  had  such  a  daughter?  Why  didn't  you  bring  her 
here  before  ?" 

"I — there  are  certain  things " 

"Certain  things  that  make  you  unhappy?"  asked 
Melissine. 

"Your  father's  death "  Partridge  evaded. 

Melissine  may  not  have  known  any  part  of  what  was 
troubling  Partridge,  but  she  knew  pretty  well  how  to 
behave.  She  left  her  place.  She  walked  around  abrupt 
ly  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  whither  Partridge  had 
retired.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  At  that 

220 


"And  on  My  Servants " 

Partridge  looked  so  shrunken  that  Melissine 
loomed  almost  large.  Very  large  she  may  have  loomed 
to  Partridge. 

"Whatever  troubles  you  troubles  me,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  suppose  that  there  is  anything  that  could  ever  de 
stroy  my  love  for  you,  or  my  faith  in  you,  or  for  the 
things  that  have  always  had  my  love  and  my  faith,  and 
those  things  that  shall  have  them  always  ?" 

Partridge  would  have  spoken,  but  his  effort  was  too 
weak  to  stem  Melissine's  impetuosity. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  didn't  notice — don't  fib — how  dis 
tressed  you  have  been  of  late?  Don't  tell  me  what  it 
is,  unless  you  want  to.  I  don't  care.  Not  unless  caring 
can  help  you.  Can  it?" 

"What,  miss?' 

"What,  my  little  Melissine?     Say  it!" 

"What " 

"My  little  Melissine,"  Melissine  commanded.  "Shall 
I  ever  be  anything  but  your  little  Melissine  for  you? 
Will  you  ever  be  anything  but  my  dear  old  Grandy? 
Now,  say  it!" 

"Ah,"  said  Partridge,  "I  wish — you  were  still  little." 

"I  am,"  she  said.  "If  you  don't  look  out  I'll  begin 
to  cry.  And  then,  you  know  that  you  will  be  the  only 
one  who  can  make  me  stop.  Will  it  help  you  any  to  tell 
me  v/hat  it  is  that  worries  you  so?" 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Partridge.  "Only,  I  was  of  the 
opinion  that  it  would  be  better  were  you  to  seek  one 
of  these  finishing  schools — or  perchance  to  travel " 

Melissine  studied  him  with  calm  and  searching  eyes. 

221 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

She  had  a  knack  of  reading  the  general  lines  of  Par 
tridge's  thought  if  not  the  complex  detail  of  it. 

"You  want  to  get  me  away  from  here?" 

"I  thought " 

"Is  it  because  of  some  danger  that  threatens  me?" 

"A  change " 

"Or  you?" 

She  was  so  close  to  his  thought  that  Partridge  could 
neither  deny  nor  evade. 

"Is  this  connected  with  Mme.  Jenesco?" 

Partridge  was  in  a  misery,  physical  and  mental,  as  he 
made  his  confession : 

"I  suppose  you  might  say — it  is." 

"It  is  because  of  something  she  is — or  knows  ?" 

Partridge  shook  slightly.  To  him  there  was  nothing 
uncanny  in  the  girl's  close  guessing.  She  knew  him  well. 
She  was  a  Tyrone  as  well. 

"And  you're  afraid  of  her?"  Melissine  pursued. 

"This,"  said  Partridge,  with  the  will  to  deny,  "is  most 
distressing." 

"Oh,  don't  be  frightened,"  Melissine  pleaded;  "and 
don't  be  worried.  Listen!  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I've 
known  for  years  that  this  dear  old  home  of  ours  has  been 
looked  at  with  suspicion  by  every  one  in  the  neighbor 
hood — that  they  think  it  is  haunted,  or  something,  or 
worse  than  that  something.  Yet  we  know,  don't  we  ?" 

In  Partridge's  eyes — there  for  a  quavering  second  or 
two — was  the  message  that  there  were  things — that  there 
was  one  thing,  above  all — that  Melissine  did  not  know. 
He  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  telling  her  what  it  was. 

v  222 


"And  on  'My  Servants " 

And  this  was  something  that  did  not  have  to  do  with 
Mme.  'Jenesco,  or  Mme.  Jenesco's  threats  at  all. 

But  could  he  tell  her  this  thing  that  he  had  kept  from 
her  father?  Could  he  tell  her  this  thing  that  would 
humble  her  pride — make  Nathan  Tyrone  himself  even 
now  turn  in  his  grave?  There  arose  before  those 
troubled,  groping  eyes  of  the  old  butler  the  spectral 
effigies  of  the  Tyrones  he  had  served — proud,  reserved. 
Melissine — ah,  Melissine  was  all  tenderness,  affection, 
and  faith.  But  she  also  was  proud.  No!  He  would 
rather  die  than  tell  even  her. 

"Let  Mme.  Jenesco  stay  here  if  she  wants  to,"  said 
Melissine.  "She  fascinates  me.  She  says  that  there  is 
some  sort  of  a  bond  between  us.  Maybe  there  is.  But 
this  is  what  I  feel.  I  feel,  somehow,  as  if  Mme.  Jenesco, 
herself,  were  secretly  unhappy,  that  she  needs  us." 

All  this  without  other  knowledge  than  the  knowledge 
of  the  heart.  It  made  Partridge  recall  something  he  had 
read  of  a  time  when  servants  and  handmaidens  should  re 
ceive  of  the  spirit  of  prophecy. 

But  there  was  a  fighting  strain  in  Partridge,  neverthe 
less — something  perhaps  that  had  come  to  him  in  the 
days  of  Grant  and  Lee  and  which  he  had  never  lost. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

AS   BETWEEN    MAN    AND    MAN 

JUDGE  BANCROFT  was  familiar  with  the  secret 
which  was  at  once  the  strength  and  the  weakness 
of  the  Tyrone  butler.  Judge  Bancroft  was  the 
one  person  on  earth  who  did  know  it  other  than  Par 
tridge's  self.  The  judge  had  shared  it  with  Partridge 
from  the  first,  and  abetted  him  in  it  even,  albeit  the  judge 
had  shaken  his  head,  looked  forward — with  his  shrewd 
old-lawyer  eye — to  the  time  when  the  whole  thing  would 
have  to  come  out. 

"I've  seen  them  try  to  keep  their  secrets,"  said  the 
judge.  "I've  seen  them  struggle  to  take  their  secrets 
with  them  to  the  grave.  No  use.  Even  if  they  did  take 
their  secrets  with  them  to  the  grave,  the  grave  spoke 
a  little  later  on.  It  all  comes  out — this  man  has  been 
in  jail,  that  man's  first  wife  committed  suicide,  that  one 
cheated  his  aunt,  these  twain  were  never  united  in  holy 
wedlock,  such  another  made  his  money  defrauding  Uncle 
Sam  while  Sam  was  fighting  for  his  life.  God  have 
mercy  on  us  all!  Not  that  I  am  putting  you  in  a  class 
with  the  ordinary  crooks,  Partridge — not  with  the  or 
dinary  crooks!" 

Judge  Bancroft  had  another  sort  of  eye  than  that 
224 


As  Between  Mem  and  Man 

old-lawyer  eye  of  his.  It  was  an  eye  for  dahlias,  and 
pansies,  and  landscapes.  He  had  ceased  to  practice  law 
these  many  years,  and  to  indulge  this  other  eye  of  his 
had  gone  to  live  in  rustic  splendor  far  out  in  a  little- 
advertised  section  of  Long  Island. 

Hither,  after  elaborate  premeditation,  Partridge  made 
his  way.  Partridge  had  known  the  judge  for  the  mat 
ter  of  half  a  century,  just  about,  but  nonetheless  Par 
tridge  went  in  fear  and  trembling.  He  hated  to  intrude. 
He  hoped  that  the  judge  would  not  be  offended.  He 
was  tortured  by  the  fear  that  the  judge  would  refuse 
to  see  him  at  all;  or  would  give  him  a  curt  dismissal 
after  reminding  him  that  years  ago  he,  the  judge,  had 
told  him,  Partridge,  that  the  truth  would  come  out;  or 
that  the  judge  would  merely  give  him  a  letter  to  some 
preen  young  lawyer  in  town. 

Oh,  the  situation  was  so  delicate!  It  so  impinged 
on  the  family  honor!  It  was  so  hard  to  explain!  To 
the  world  it  never  could  be  explained !  The  very  soul 
of  Partridge  blushed  when  he  thought  of  what  Mme. 
Jenesco  had  threatened  to  do  with  regard  to  the  Sunday 
newspapers ! 

And  now  what  if  the  judge  should  rebuff  him? 

Partridge's  fears  in  the  latter  respect  were  rather 
increased  than  lessened  when  he  finally  came  in  sight 
of  the  Judge's  home — lonely  neighborhood,  expansive 
lawns,  big  houses  set  dimly  far  back  from  the  street, 
a  sense  of  wealth,  of  a  privacy  bought  and  paid  for  at 
high  figures  and  not  to  be  tampered  with. 

225 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

*Are  you  sure  that  that  is  where  Judge  Bancroft 
lives?" 

Partridge  had  made  his  inquiry  of  a  whistling  boy, 
and  the  boy  was  so  simple  and  friendly  that  Partridge 
was  stringing  out  the  conversation  for  his  own  encour 
agement. 

"Sure,  he  lives  there,"  the  boy  replied.  "I  see  him 
there  myself  to-day,  arworkin'  on  his  lawn." 

That  was  encouraging.  Now  that  Partridge  remem 
bered  it,  the  judge  always  had  professed  a  certain  ten 
derness  for  grass  and  things.  But  so,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  had  many  an  old  man  who  could  show  himself 
fierce  and  cruel  for  human  creatures. 

Partridge  went  up  the  long  walk  toward  the  big  house 
glimmering  in  the  early  night.  He  crossed  a  terror- 
inspiring  expanse  of  dark  porch.  He  rang  the  bell. 

A  neat  maid  had  opened  the  door.  She  had  smiled 
at  him,  and  inquired  his  name,  and  Partridge  had  entered 
a  roomy  hall.  And  then,  quite  before  he  knew  what 
was  happening,  there  was  the  judge  himself. 

"God  bless  my  eyes !  Partridge !  This  is  good !  Give 
me  your  things !  Come  on  in  here  where  we  can  make 
ourselves  at  home !" 

Partridge  lost  his  breath.  There  was  a  distressful 
tightening  about  his  throat.  He  faltered.  He  trembled. 
He  laughed  a  little.  He  was  so  dazed  that  he  would 
have  started  off  in  the  wrong  direction — following  the 
maid  to  the  kitchen,  perhaps;  but  the  judge  was  steer 
ing  him  right,  his  arm  clasping  Partridge's  shoulders. 

The  judge  conducted  Partridge  into  an  expansive 
226 


As  Between  Mem  and  Marl 

room — part  library,  part  living-room,  well-lighted,  maga 
zines  and  papers  lying  about  in  a  mere  surface  disorder 
amid  what  was  obviously  a  very  rich  and  very  well- 
ordered  home.  The  judge,  stout,  ruddy,  strong,  despite 
his  age,  busied  himself  at  hauling  two  easy-chairs  into 
position  at  the  side  of  the  large  central  table. 

"Sit  down !"  he  cried.  "Sit  down !"  And  he  himself 
dropped  into  one  of  the  chairs. 

But  Partridge  remained  standing.  Partridge  was  frail. 
He  looked  very  fine — in  his  best  black  coat,  black  stock, 
his  immaculate  collar  flaring  well  up  under  his  ears, 
and  over  his  ears  his  silken  white  hair  brushed  forward 
in  the  style  of  another  generation.  But  Partridge  was 
the  old  servant,  sir.  He  teetered  a  little.  He  clasped 
his  hands.  He  had  the  air  of  saying :  "Can  I  bring  you 
anything  else,  sir?" 

"Sit  down,  you  old  sinner!"  softly  roared  the  judge, 
and  there  was  such  authority,  as  of  the  court-room,  in 
his  voice  that  Partridge  had  to  obey. 

Partridge,  however,  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  chair.  It 
was  thus  seated  that  he  explained  the  purpose  of  his 
call — sketchily,  uneasily — after  the  manner  of  his  sit 
ting  down. 

"There's  always  one  way  out  of  the  situation,"  the 
judge  exploded  at  last;  "and  that  is  for  you  to  come 
out  with  the  whole  truth.  And  why  shouldn't  you? 
You've  played  your  part.  Confound  it!  You've  held 
your  peace  now  upward  of  twenty  years.  What  if  it 
does  come  out?  It's  nothing  for  you  to  be  ashamed 
of — nothing  for  any  one  to  be  ashamed  of.  On  the  con- 

227 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

trary!     Good  Lord!     When   I   think  of   some  of  the 
things  that  are  being  concealed !    Why  not  out  with  it  ?" 

"But  Miss  Tyrone,  sir !    She  would  have  to  know !" 

The  judge  caught  the  quaver  in  Partridge's  voice. 
His  mood  underwent  a  perceptible  change. 

"Partridge,"  he  said,  starting  forward  slightly,  "sup 
pose,  before  we  go  any  further,  we  have  a  little  nip." 
He  clapped  a  hand  on  one  of  Partridge's  knees.  I've 
got  something  here  I  want  you  to  try.  Friend  just  sent 
it  to  me  from  the  other  side — a  colleague  of  the  wool 
sack,  Partridge — a  good  judge  of  other  things  than  the 
British  constitution,  by  George!" 

Without  waiting  for  Partridge's  yes  or  no,  the  judge 
got  up  and  went  over  to  a  remote  corner  of  the  room. 
When  he  returned  he  was  bringing  with  him  a  small 
blue  jug  and  two  glasses. 

"Rare  stuff,  Partridge,"  said  the  judge.  He  raised 
the  jug  to  the  light  and  read  what  was  printed  on  it 
under  the  blue  glaze: 

"  'Coronation  of  King  George  V  and  Queen  Mary — 
June  22,  1911.'" 

The  judge  tenderly  extracted  the  crowned  cork  and 
decanted  the  liquor  with  reverent  but  cheerful  concen 
tration.  He  recorked  the  jug.  Without  a  word  he 
toddled  off  again,  and  this  time  when  he  returned  he 
was  opening  a  box  of  cigars. 

Partridge  had  started  to  rise  to  his  feet  a  number 
of  times,  but  the  judge  had  somehow  held  him  where 
he  was.  This  time  Partridge  was  almost  half-way  to 
his  feet. 

228 


A  s  Between  Man  and  Man 

"Don't  get  up,"  said  the  judge.     "Try  one  of  these." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir.     I  can't  permit  you " 

"Would  you  like  a  smaller  cigar?"  bubbled  the  judge. 

"These  are  mild.    Maybe  you'd  prefer  a  panetela." 
"These  appear  to  be  most  excellent,"  said  Partridge 

weakly. 

But  for  him,  Partridge,  to  be  served  like  this  by  a 

gentleman — by  a  gentleman  of  the  position  of  Judge 

Bancroft !    No  wonder  that  Partridge  was  overcome ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

ON  THE  WINGS  OF  AN  EAGLE 

BUT  the  judge  good-naturedly  forced  Partridge  to 
accept  a  cigar.  He  insisted  on  holding  the  match 
while  Partridge  made  a  show  of  lighting  it.  The 
faint  strands  of  blue  smoke  were  as  the  vapors  of  magic 
for  Partridge.  He  had  come  into  a  new  world.  When 
this  world  gradually  adjusted  itself  about  him  he  found 
that  he  was  on  a  higher  plane.  The  talk  had  reverted 
to  the  secret.  Partridge  found  that  he  had  the  strength 
to  maintain  his  view,  even  in  the  presence  of  such  a 
personage,  such  a  friend,  as  Judge  Bancroft. 

"I  cannot — cannot  let  her  know,"  said  Partridge. 

Judge  Bancroft's  cigar  was  drawing  well.  He  had 
sipped  his  coronation  liquor.  He  was  settled  deep  in  his 
chair.  He  was  the  judge  again,  "in  chambers,"  mellow 
and  human. 

"In  all  the  circumstances,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  hardly 
see  how  it  could  be  avoided.  It  becomes  a  choice  of 
two  evils — call  them  evils.  Either  we  must  advise  Miss 
Tyrone  of  the  facts  of  the  case  or  put  up  with  this 
species  of  blackmail  by  the  Jenesco  woman.  Mr.  Nathan 
Tyrone,  as  you  are  aware,  never  took  me  into  his  con 
fidence.  What  this  Mme.  Jenesco  says  about  him  and 

230 


On  the  Wings  of  an  Eagle 

her  mother  may  be  so.  She  may  be  his  daughter.  Such 
instances  are  rather  common.  An  ugly  situation  might 
develop  if  we  took  the  matter  into  the  courts.  I  speak, 
of  course,  of  the  way  the  situation  might  develop  for 
— what  is  her  name?" 

"Melissine,  sir." 

"Oh,  yes!  Melissine!  I  remember  now.  She  had 
read  some  of  my  law-books  as  I  recollect — some  old 
first  editions  that  I  had  given  to  her  grandfather.  She 
struck  me  as  an  intelligent  sort  of  person." 

"She  is,  sir !"  gasped  Partridge  fervently. 

"Well,  can't  you  take  her  into  your  confidence — tefl 
her  this  secret  of  yours?  She  is  fond  of  you." 

"She  has  always  been  that,  sir." 

"She  shouldn't  have  any  objection  to  living  on  jusf 
as  she  has  been.  The  truth  won't  hurt  her." 

"It  would  kill  her,  sir!"  quavered  Partridge. 

Partridge's  cigar  had  gone  out  long  ago,  but  he  raised 
it  shakily  to  his  lips  and  took  it  away  again.  He  had 
raised  his  glass  when  the  judge  was  drinking  his  health 
— his  very  good  health — but  he  hadn't  tasted  the  con 
tents  of  it.  The  liquor  was  slowly  evaporating,  filling 
the  air  with  a  spicy  sweetness.  The  judge  grunted. 
Partridge  pursued : 

"It  would  kill  her  if  she  knew — as  it  would  have  killed 
her  father.  She  also  is  a  Tyrone.  The  Tyrones — they 
have  been  proud,  they  have  been  sensitive." 

"The  Tyrone  pride!"  the  judge  mused.  "The  Tyrone 
pride!  The  pride  that  goeth  before  a  downfall.  True, 
I  had  almost  forgotten.  It  was  this  pride — the  pride  of 

231 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

my  friend,  Ulysses — and  you  remember  how  proud  he 
was — too  proud  to  mention  the  wound  that  was  killing 
him — his  pride  that  caused  all  the  trouble  in  the  first 
place.  And  Nathan  had  it — that  pride.  Otherwise  I 
might  have  arranged  matters  while  he  was  yet  alive. 
And  now " 

He  blew  a  slow  puff  of  smoke  into  the  air.  Partridge, 
bowed,  studied  his  extinguished  cigar  with  unseeing 
eyes. 

"You  say,"  resumed  the  judge,  "that  Melissine  appears 
to  be  happy  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  this  other  woman 
in  the  house?" 

"Oh,  yes  sir!"  cried  Partridge  softly.  "She  is  the 
kind  to  shed  happiness  about  her.  I — I  suppose  that  I 
should  be  grateful.  I  am  grateful.  She  is  Faith !  She 
is  Hope!  She  is  Charity!" 

"Very  beautiful!"  intoned  the  judge.  It  is  possible 
that  Partridge's  tribute  inspired  the  judge  himself  to 
think  on  a  higher  plane. 

"Partridge,  old  friend,"  he  said,  even  more  gently 
than  he  had  hitherto  spoken,  "in  the  course  of  my  long 
career — in  the  course  of  my  own  long  career  as  a  servant 
— that's  what  we  all  long  to  be  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
Partridge — good  servants " 

"Yes,  sir,"  Partridge  agreed  with  a  touch  of  emotion. 

"Ever  and  again  occasions  have  arisen,"  the  judge 
went  on,  "where  neither  law  nor  worldly  wisdom  would 
suffice.  You  might  say  that  such  is  ever  the  case  in 
affairs  that  really  matter — affairs  of  the  heart  and  af 
fairs  of  the  spirit.  This  is  one  of  those  times.  The  law 

232 


On  the  Wings  of  an  Eagle 

can't  help  us.  The  law  is  powerful.  The  law  is  su 
preme.  But  it  is  human.  It  is  human  in  that  it  can  do 
many  things  that  it  cannot  undo." 

Partridge  got  to  his  feet,  feeling  perhaps  that  he 
would  be  more  comfortable  like  that ;  feeling  also,  per 
haps,  that  he  had  taken  enough  of  the  judge's  time.  The 
judge  also  arose.  He  had  tossed  his  cigar  into  an  ash 
tray.  He  looked  at  Partridge  with  a  kindling  smile.  He 
put  a  hand  on  Partridge's  shoulder. 

"You  and  I  are  getting  old,  Partridge,"  he  said.  "We 
are  about  at  an  age  when  we  can  see  the  futility  of  much 
of  human  effort,  the  unnecessity  of  so  much  of  the 
world's  business,  its  scamperings,  its  worries,  its  strife. 
By  and  by,  Partridge,  you  and  I  are  going  to  step  down 
and  out — or  up  and  out " 

"I  have  considered  that,  sir/'  said  Partridge  with  a 
certain  majesty. 

"We  know  that  when  that  does  happen  everything  will 
be  well — not  only  before  the  Lord — but  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world." 

"What  more  could  we  ask?"  demanded  Partridge 
softly. 

"What  more  could  we  ask?"  the  judge  echoed.  "So 
let  us  simply  bear  with  the  situation  for  a  while.  It 
can  hardly  become  worse  unless  we  make  it  so.  You 
say  yourself  that  the  situation  is  not  altogether  unbear 
able,  either  for  yourself  or  for  Miss  Tyrone.  It  will 
be  time  enough  to  take  more  decisive  steps  should  the 
Jenesco  woman  become  recalcitrant." 

"And  in  the  meantime " 

233 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Hold  fast  in  the  Faith,"  said  the  judge.  "Hold  fast 
in  the  Faith,  as  you  have  always  done." 

He  himself  saw  Partridge  to  the  front  door — helping 
Partridge  on  with  his  coat,  and  handing  Partridge  his 
hat,  his  umbrella,  and  his  gloves,  even  as  Partridge  might 
have  done  for  the  judge  had  the  judge  been  the  depart 
ing  guest.  The  judge  could  have  done  no  greater  honor 
to  any  man.  He  invited  Partridge  to  come  out  in  the 
daytime  so  that  he  could  show  Partridge  his  new  dahlia 
beds.  And  the  judge's  limousine  was  at  the  door,  not 
merely  to  carry  Partridge  over  to  the  station  but  all  the 
way  back  to  Cinnamon  Street. 

Curiously  enough  the  motto  on  Melissine's  calendar 
for  this  day  had  been  one  of  joy.  And  in  the  midst 
of  his  sorrow,  Partridge  had  repeated  it,  and  had  tried 
to  get  into  the  spirit  of  it,  and  had  failed.  Now  he  re 
peated  it  again,  and  found  that,  after  a  fashion,  the 
motto  had  been  a  prophecy.  Over  and  over  again  he 
repeated  it  to  himself  while  the  big  limousine  spun  away 
the  swift,  luxurious  miles: 

"Rejoice  in  the  Lord  always ;  and  again  I  say,  Rejoice. 
Let  your  moderation  be  known  to  all  men.  The  Lord  is 
at  hand." 

The  movement  of  the  limousine  was  so  joyously  soft 
and  swift  that  it  was  almost  as  if  he,  Partridge,  were 
mounted  on  the  back  of  an  eagle;  and  it  was  almost 
as  if  the  eagle  were  bearing  him  up  as  well  as  on,  higher 

234 


On  the  Wings  of  an  Eagle 

and  higher,  above  the  clouds  of  fear  and  distress,  until 
he  was  among  the  stars,  and  the  prophecy  of  the  morn 
ing  had  become  a  present  conviction: 
"Rejoice  in  the  Lord — the  Lord  is  at  hand." 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE   LIGHT   AT   THE    WINDOW 

IT  wasn't  very  late  when  the  judge's  limousine  brought 
Partridge  back  to  Cinnamon  Street.     It  was  at  an 
hour  when  the  rest  of  New  York  was  asquirm  and 
asquall  and  ashine  almost  as  if  it  were  noon — unwashed 
children  still  playing  in  the  streets,  shop-workers  gad 
ding  about,  theaters  and  restaurants,  cheap  and  other 
wise,  each  a  human  ant-heap. 

But  Cinnamon  Street  was  dark.  Tony  Zamboni's  gro 
cery  store  gave  off  no  other  sign  of  human  possession 
than  a  smell  of  cheese  and  faded  fruit.  The  drug  store 
was  dark,  except  for  a  dim  light  that  burned  back  of 
the  blue-glass  prescription  counter — where  one  could 
imagine  the  druggist  still  furtively  at  work,  doing  things 
that  he  ought  not  to  do.  Elsewhere,  gloom  complete, 
even  under  the  shuddering  and  frightened  gas-lamps. 
The  gas-lamps  seemed  to  be  ashamed.  A  lean  cat  slanted 
across  the  street. 

And  there,  along  the  chapel  fence  where  the  shadows 
were  deepest,  stood  Jerome  Hickcock,  the  policeman, 
conversing  with  that  other  night-prowler,  Goodenough. 

A  shake  of  subdued  thunder,  a  majestic  flood  of  light, 
and  there  was  the  big  black  limousine  stopping  in  front 
of  No.  6. 

236 


The  Light  at  the  Window 

"And  look  at  that !"  cried  Hickcock.  "Now  would  you 
look  at  that.  An  auto!  A  closed  one!  A  big  one! 
Stopping  in  front  of  No.  6!" 

Goodenough  blinked.    Said  he: 

"  'The  night  was  lown  and  the  stars  sat  still — '  " 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,"  breathed  Hickcock.  "It's 
him." 

"Who?" 

Hickcock  had  eyes  that  not  only  looked  like  the  eyes 
of  an  owl.  He  had  spent  so  much  time  in  this  street 
at  night  that  his  eyes  were  also  like  an  owl's  in  that 
they  could  see  in  the  dark. 

"The  dirty  old  sneak,"  he  exclaimed.  "At  first,"  said 
he,  "I  was  for  thinkin'  that  it  was  Tyrone  himself  come 
back.  You're  to  blame  for  that,  you  old  rummy,  with 
your  talk  of  the  spooks."  He  stared  a  little  longer  to 
make  sure.  He  saw  that  the  limousine  had  brought  a 
single  passenger,  that  this  passenger  now  was  saluting 
the  chauffeur,  thanking  him,  bidding  him  a  good  night 
and  a  safe  return.  "The  dirty  old  sneak,"  breathed 
Hickcock  again.  "Who  was  it?  And  who  else  but 
Partridge?" 

"You  could  hardly  have  expected  him  to  call  out  me 
and  the  old  roan  at  this  time  of  night,"  said  Goodenough. 

"Three  sixes — three  zeros — a  New  York  license,"  and 
Hickcock  pawed  out  his  note-book  and  entered  the  num 
ber  of  the  strange  car.  It  was  while  the  auto  filled  the 
street  with  a  subdued  uproar  as  it  backed  and  turned. 
"I'll  put  it  over  on  them  yet,"  said  Hickcock.  "But  at  that 

237 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

it  would  be  my  rotten  luck  for  somethin'  big  to  happen 
here  the  day  they  bury  me.  It's  always  been  like  that. 
When  I  was  new  on  the  force  I  watches  a  dock  for 
three  weeks  steady.  I  gets  a  transfer.  The  very  next 
day  two  children  falls  overboard  there  and  McGuffy 
gets  the  medal.  Can  you  beat  it?" 

"That  may  have  been  a  doctor's  auto  he  came  back 
in,"  said  Goodenough.  It  is  possible  that  Goodenough 
was  a  little  hurt,  all  the  same,  he  had  been  furnishing 
the  rolling-stock  for  this  house  so  many  years. 

"Sure !"  said  Hickcock.  "That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you. 
One  of  these  days  it'll  be  a  murder  in  that  old  menagerie, 
and  who  will  get  the  credit  for  it?  You  can  damn  well 
have  the  education,  and  you  can  damn  well  be  faithful 
on  your  beat " 

"Like "  interposed  Goodenough. 

"Like  me!"  ground  Hickcock.  "Where  has  my  edu 
cation  got  me?  What  good  has  it  done  me  to  keep 
my  eye  on  this  old  den  of  thieves  and  worse  for  close 
on  to  twenty  years?" 

"Aye,"  said  Goodenough ;  "and  you  spoke  a  true  word 
there." 

"That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you.  About  the  time  that  the 
coroner  gets  his  case  in  there  it'll  be  about  the  day  after 
Jerome  Hickcock's  name  appears  on  the  pension-roll. 
Say,  if  they  ever  pull  that  on  me,  I'll  come  around  here 
and  clean  up  the  place,  sure  enough,  even  if  it  gets  me 
broke." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Goodenough  experienced 
a  stir  of  interest  in  what  Hickcock  was  saying  to  him. 

238 


The  Light  at  the  Window 

"Just  what  is  it/'  Goodenough  inquired,  "that  you've 
got  against  the  old  place?" 

"It's  got  a  bad  name,"  said  Hickcock. 

"I  know  it  has;  but  why?" 

"You  ought  to  know." 

"But  I  don't.  Nobody  knows.  Nobody  knows  what 
has  happened  in  there — what  is  happening  now." 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  glowered  Hickcock,  taking 
a  fresh  grip  on  his  nightstick  as  if  he  intended  to  beat 
Goodenough  to  death.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Hickcock 
was  as  fond  of  Goodenough  as  he  could  be  fond  of  any 
man.  "The  place  is  a  secret.  And  tell  me  this :  Do  you 
see  any  neighbors  runnin'  in  and  out?  You've  been 
around  them  for  years.  What's  their  politics?  Tell 
me  that  What's  their  business  ?  Who's  the  little  blonde  ? 
Who's  this  Woman  in  Black?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Goodenough  reflected  aloud.  "But  for 
less  they've  burned  witches." 

"That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you,"  said  Hickcock.  "There's 
something  worse  than  witches  the  matter  with  that  old 
kennel.  Look  now!  Look  at  the  candlelight  goin'  to 
the  upper  floor,  and  I  bet  it'll  still  be  there  when  the  sun 
comes  up." 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  Goodenough.  "Maybe  he's  merely 
praying  late." 

Old  Goodenough,  with  his  eye  of  a  poet,  his  eye  of 
the  imagination,  had  discerned  the  truth.  Up  there 
where  the  dim  light  burned  Partridge  prayed.  But  even 
to  one  who  saw  him  there  with  the  physical  eye  would 

239 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

the  fact  have  been  concealed  to  some  extent.  For  Par 
tridge  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  couch,  face  up,  eyes  wide 
— his  face  was  strangely  like  that  of  an  interested  and 
attentive  child.  He  was  giving  an  account  of  himself 
apparently ;  also  of  his  friends. 

"Now,  behold,"  said  he,  "nothing  ill  can  happen  to 
me.  I  was  in  need  of  a  friend,  and  Judge  Bancroft — 
bless  him,  I  beg  of  Thee — was  moved  to  receive  me  in 
friendship.  O  God,  thus  receive  Thou  me,  also!" 


CHAPTER  XLI 

TOO  MANY  COOKS 

LIKE  that,  Partridge  slept  for  a  number  of  hours 
as  a  child  might  sleep,  with  nothing  in  his  con 
sciousness  but  a  knowledge  of  good  and  a  vague 
dream  of  pleasant  landscapes  bathed  in  a  celestial  light. 
As  often  happens,  it  was  with  a  slight  shock  when  he 
awoke — when  he  found  himself  back  on  earth,  in  Cin 
namon  Street,  in  old  No.  6,  with  all  the  earthly  problems 
that  were  concentrated  there. 

Yesterday  had  been  the  eighteenth.  Melissine's  cal 
endar  to-day  reminded  him  that  "the  prayer  of  faith 
shall  save  the  sick." 

There  was  no  immediate  response  from  the  depth  of 
his  heart.  The  depth  of  his  heart  was  very  deep — like 
a  secret,  hidden  valley,  with  forested  steeps  about  it — 
not  a  place  for  the  early  dawn  to  strike.  But  gradually, 
as  he  bathed  and  shaved  and  dressed  himself,  meditat 
ing  betimes  on  the  motto  for  the  day,  the  sun  must 
have  climbed,  so  to  speak;  for,  finally,  there  was  a  shaft 
of  light  striking  down  into  that  depth  of  gloom  and 
darkness  which  was  the  bottom  of  the  heart  of  an  old 
man. 

"The  prayer  of  faith !" 

241 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

He  had  been  feeling  sick.  He  had  a  premonition  that 
he  was  going  to  be  healed. 

He  went  down  through  the  dark  and  silent  house  and 
back  toward  the  kitchen.  He  paused  in  the  butler's 
pantry  when  certain  noises  and  a  smell  of  coffee  that 
reached  him  from  the  kitchen  apprised  him  that  some 
one  had  preceded  him  there. 

Partridge  almost  wished  that  he  had  put  on  his  coat 
instead  of  the  apron  he  wore.  He  knew  who  was  in 
there.  He  pushed  open  the  swinging  door  in  silence. 
He  permitted  himself  a  look — a  long  look.  And  to  have 
seen  him,  one  would  have  said  that  the  sun  was  now 
altogether  up,  making  the  depths  of  his  hidden  valley 
of  a  heart  to  shine  like  the  mountaintops. 

Melissine  was  there,  housewifely  in  blue  gingham. 
Her  back  was  turned.  Her  blond  curls  were  clustered 
over  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  was  arranging  some 
breakfast  things  on  a,  tray. 

"Miss  Melissine!"  called  Partridge  softly. 

The  girl  whirled  with  a  smile. 

"Good  morning,  Grandy,"  she  saluted  him. 

When  Melissine  was  a  very  small  child  she  had  fallen 
into  the  error  of  considering  Partridge  a  grandfather 
— a  grandfather  of  sorts,  if  not  her  own — because  of 
his  resemblance  to  a  bonafide  grandfather  she  had  once 
seen,  either  in  life  or  in  a  picture-book,  no  one  remem 
bered  which.  Hence  the  grand-daddy — hence  the 
Grandy.  Partridge  loved  the  title.  It  had  never  ceased 
to  touch  softly  some  lute-string  of  his  make-up. 

242 


Too  Many  Cooks 

"You  promised  to  let  me  get  the  breakfast  this  morn 
ing,"  Partridge  said. 

"I  couldn't  sleep  any  longer,  and  I  couldn't  stay  in 
bed  any  longer,"  Melissine  confessed  with  joyous  com 
placency.  "Life  is  so  wonderful,  I  almost  hate  to  go 
to  sleep  at  all.  And  I  just  can't  miss  anything  of  the 
day.  I  wonder  if  Belle  is  up." 

"Belle?" 

"Mme.  Jenesco!  She  told  me  that  she  wanted  me  to 
call  her  that." 

"And  what  else  did  she  tell  you?"  Partridge  inquired 
softly,  as  he  paid  an  apparent  attention  to  the  fire  that 
Melissine  herself  had  started  in  the  range  and  to  the 
coffee-pot  on  the  back  of  the  range. 

"She  said  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  sister  to  me," 
said  Melissine,  joyously.  "No  one — no  one  in  the  wide 
world — could  do  so  well  with  a  sister.  Not  just  now." 

"And  why  just  now?"  Partridge  was  bringing  other 
porcelain  from  the  closet. 

"A  sister  to  talk  to — a  woman  to  talk  to !  Dear 
Grandy!  You  were  never  a  girl.  You  were  never  a 
girl  engaged  to  be  married !  And  a  girl  can't  show  her 
letters  to  another  man — can  she?  Even  if  the  other  man 
is  Grandy." 

There  was  a  lovely  flush  on  Melissine's  face.  It  con 
trasted  with  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  across  Partridge's 
heart.  There  had  been  a  mistake  somewhere  in  Nathan 
Tyrone's  upbringing  of  Melissine.  In  her  recent  years 
she  had  been  deprived  almost  entirely  of  feminine  so 
ciety  of  any  kind.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  had  a  girl 

243 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

friend.  Partridge  had  never  read  Freud,  but,  nonethe 
less,  Partridge  had  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  ac 
cumulated  force  of  suppressed  desires.  It  must  have 
been  so  that  through  the  years  of  her  life  Melissine  had 
desired  such  companionship.  Here,  at  last,  was  Mme. 
Jenesco  to  supply  the  vacancy. 

A  delicate  situation !  One  to  make  Partridge  grope — 
but  grope  upward  like  a  man  who  drowns  and  can  look 
to  no  earthly  aid. 

"So  she  said  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  sister  to  you," 
said  Partridge.  There  was  a  little  relief  in  that.  She 
hadn't  said  yet  definitely  that  she  was  Melissine's  sister 
— or  that  Melissine's  family  name  was  Partridge  either. 

"I  feel  so  grateful  to  her,"  said  Melissine.  "I  knew 
that  I  was  right  the  other  day  when  I  said  that  it  would 
be  better  to  have  her  live  with  us — a  mystery ! — but  such 
a  charming  mystery !" 

Partridge  was  noncommittal. 

Melissine  surveyed  her  breakfast  tray,  forgot  it  for 
a  moment.  She  stepped  lightly  over  to  Partridge,  rested 
her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders  in  a  gesture  that  had 
become  dear  and  familiar  to  him.  She  sought  to  look 
into  his  eyes,  but  Partridge  looked  at  the  ceiling. 

"It  was  perfectly  dear  of  you  to  think  of  my  going 
to  a  finishing  school,"  she  said.  "But  this  is  better  yet. 
She  knows  so  many  things !"  Partridge  was  uneasy,  but 
he  did  not  speak.  "And  I  can  talk  to  her  about  so 
many  things  that  I  could  not  possibly  talk  to  you  about 
— even  if  you  are  the  dearest  person  in  the  world." 

"What,  for  example,"  queried  Partridge  hoarsely. 
244 


Too  Many  Cooks 

A  lovely  flush  overspread  Melissine's  upturned  face. 

"Marriage,"  she  whispered.  "You  couldn't  tell  me 
very  much  about  marriage ;  could  you,  Grandy  dear  ?  I 
love  Eugene.  He  loves  me.  And  I  am  just  sure  that 
he  is  going  to  be  a  perfectly  wonderful  architect  some 
day — an  Inigo  Jones — a  Viollet-le-Duc !" 

Melissine  was  prone  to  these  digressions  whenever 
Buckhannon's  name  came  up. 

"You  were  saying,"  Partridge  reminded  her,  with  his 
pale  eyes  now  on  the  kitchen  window. 

"But  everything — everything  has  made  me"  think  again 
and  again  of  that  first  day — you  don't  mind  my  coming 
back  to  it,  do  you — and  making  me  wish  that  you  would 
tell  me  what  it  was  all  about." 

Partridge  was  silent.  Melissine's  voice  took  on  a 
still  deeper  vibrancy  of  sympathy,  not  to  say  downright 
love.  Partridge  felt  a  tear  creeping  to  the  corner  of 
his  left  eye,  and  he  wished  that  he  could  have  wiped 
it  away ;  but  he  couldn't—- not  without  betraying  himself. 

"Why,"  queried  Melissine,  "why  did  you  look  so 
sad?  Why  did  you  look  so  white?" 

She  herself  detected  the  telltale  tear  that  Partridge 
would  have  suppressed.  She  reached  down  and  got 
her  own  little  cambric  handkerchief,  and  she  touched  it 
to  Partridge's  eye — with  a  species  of  wonder. 

"Why,"  said  Partridge  with  a  lurch,  "it  must  have 
been  on  account  of  your  father." 

Rather  dazedly  he  confronted  Melissine's  pure-blue 
gaze. 

"Grandy!" 

245 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Yes?"     And  Partridge  managed  a  smile. 

"I  think  that  you  are  fibbing  to  me,  Grandy." 

"Oh,  gracious !"  And  Partridge  even  managed  some 
thing  of  the  old-time  playfulness  that  had  been  his  when 
Melissine  had  used  him  in  a  variety  of  zoological  roles: 
horse,  bear,  roaring  lion,  et  cetera.  "Oh,  gracious !"  said 
Partridge,  "and  you  don't  think  that  I'd  be  guilty  of 
that." 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time" — seriously. 

"And  when  was  any  other  time?" 

"The  time  that  I  asked  you  who  Mme.  Jenesco  really 
was." 

It  looked  as  if  the  crisis  had  come.  For  all  he  knew, 
Partridge  may  have  considered  this  as  all  in  the  divine 
plan;  somewhat  as  if  the  prayer  of  faith  had  saved  the 
sick,  but  that  it  was  still  necessary  for  the  patient  to 
swallow  one  more  bitter  dose. 

But  just  when  Partridge  was  calling  on  his  soul  for 
strength  sufficient  to  the  ordeal,  he  heard  the  voice  of 
Mme.  Jenesco  herself.  It  must  have  been  that  Mme. 
Jenesco  had  heard  at  least  a  portion  of  the  conversa 
tion — inadvertently,  let  us  hope. 

"And  what  did  Grandy  tell  you  when  you  asked  him 
that?" 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE   CUP   OF  BITTERNESS 

BUT  the  crisis  was  again  deferred  for  a  time.    This 
wasn't  one  of  those  spring  thunder  showers  that 
come  up  in  a  minute  and  in  a  minute  are  gone— 
all  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  flood  of  sunshine  and  a 
singing  of  birds.    This  was  one  of  those  storms  which, 
so  to  speak,  have  their  origin  in  the  spots  on  the  sun — 
barometer  falling  day  after  day,  small  black  cloud  on  the 
horizon  getting  constantly  bigger,  ground-swell  under  a 
glassy  sea,  air  getting  darker  and  darker,  a  few  fright 
ened  gulls  hurtling  past. 

"He  didn't  tell  me  anything,"  Melissine  answered  the 
question  that  Mme.  Jenesco  had  asked.  She  left  Par 
tridge  and  ran  over  to  where  Mme.  Jenesco  stood  at 
the  door.  It  showed  how  well  established  Mme.  Jenesco 
was  in  the  house  that  she  should  have  appeared  like 
this  unannounced — especially  in  that  most  intimate 
quarter  of  the  house,  the  kitchen.  Melissine  kissed 
Mme.  Jenesco  on  the  cheek  and  allowed  herself  to  be 
kissed.  "He  didn't  tell  me  anything  except  that  you 
were  here  for  private  reasons  that  had  something  to  do 
with  the  family.  You  don't  mind  my  having  asked?  I 
am  so  glad  that  you  are  here." 

247 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

There  was  a  truthfulness  about  this,  a  limpidity  and 
a  warmth,  that  mere  words  cannot  possibly  convey.  And 
there  was  almost  a  truce  in  the  way  that  Mme.  Jenesco 
looked  at  Partridge  from  beyond  Melissine's  shoulder. 
Almost — as  if  the  sun  had  managed  to  show  itself  in 
one  last  effort  while  the  storm  was  piling  up. 

"If  you  will  permit  me,"  Partridge  spoke  up,  "I  shall 
serve  breakfast  immediately." 

Mme.  Jenesco  was  still  the  Woman  in  Black  to  some 
extent.  Her  kimono  had  a  body  of  black,  even  if  it 
was  embroidered  with  blue  and  purple  flowers  of  Jap 
anese  design.  The  kimono  was  useful.  It  commanded 
Melissine's  interest — an  interest  which  Mme.  Jenesco 
herself  perforce  must  share.  The  clothes  that  Melissine 
usually  wore  were  almost  as  captivating  to  Mme.  Jenesco 
as  Mme.  Jenesco's  clothes  were  to  Melissine. 

Partridge's  suggestion  won.  Breakfast  was  served 
in  a  small  bay,  or  sun-parlor,  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
The  old  man  served.  The  lull  lasted. 

And  then  Melissine,  partly  in  response  to  the  dic 
tates  of  her  own  conscience,  or  her  heart,  and  partly 
also  in  response  to  the  suggestion  of  the  mysterious 
friend  who  had  come  into  her  life — and  who  understood 
so  perfectly  how  Melissine  felt — Melissine  ran  off  to 
write  a  line  to  Buckhannon.  That  meant  that  Melissine 
was  going  to  be  gone  long  enough  for  a  good  deal  of 
serious  discussion  among  her  elders,  should  her  elders 
desire  it. 

Belle  and  Partridge  were  alone. 

Partridge  was  not  sure  that  he  desired  such  a  dis- 
248 


The  Cup  of  Bitterness 

cussion.  He  felt  a  little  shaky  in  the  legs.  So  must 
the  Christian  martyrs  have  felt  in  the  arena  at  Rome. 
You  may  have  all  the  spiritual  strength  in  the  world, 
but  the  flesh  will  shrink  when  the  lions  begin  to  roar 
and  when  the  pitch-fire  begins  to  smoke. 

The  latter  figure  is  not  entirely  out  of  place.  Mme. 
Jenesco  had  begun  to  smoke.  She  had  lit  a  cigarette. 
Even  apart  from  this  suggestive  detail,  she  had  the  sug 
gestion  of  a  pitch-fire  about  her  in  the  lazy,  veiled 
attention  she  devoted  to  Partridge  as  this  model  servant 
made  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  things. 

"So  she  asked  you  again,  did  she,  who  I  was  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  she  corrected  him. 

"Yes,  madam,"  Partridge  accepted  with  dignity,  thus 
in  turn  correcting  her. 

Mme.  Jenesco,  full-fed  and  slumbrous,  was  willing 
to  take  a  little  time  for  thought  and  to  amuse  herself 
during  the  interval  by  playing  with  her  victim.  She  con 
tinued  to  be  a  very  feline  person  in  certain  of  her  moods. 

"Just  because  you're  my  father,"  she  remarked  with 
gentle  irony,  "is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  show 
me  proper  respect." 

Partridge  was  silent. 

So  was  Mme.  Jenesco  for  a  while.  Her  cigarette 
smoke  coiled  in  the  sunlight.  She  lazily  extinguished 
her  cigarette  in  a  finger-bowl. 

"Melissine  tried  her  first  cigarette  yesterday,"  she 
said.  "She  is  a  bright  little  thing." 

Partridge  turned  from  the  side-table  where  he  had 
249 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

placed  the  breakfast-tray.  He  looked  at  her  with  a 
resurgence  of  the  strength  that  was  concealed  in  this 
feeble-looking  package  that  was  his  physical  self.  And 
Mme.  Jenesco,  aware  of  the  nature  of  his  look,  pretended 
to  ignore  it. 

"I've  promised  to  take  her  to  a  musical  show  as  soon 
as  she  can  get  some  decent  street  clothes.  Those  ready- 
mades  you  and  she  bought  are  a  sketch." 

Partridge  was  still  silent.  Mme.  Jenesco,  taking  her 
time  about  it,  resumed  her  monologue. 

"She  tells  me  that  you've  always  handled  the  money. 
I  have  decided  to  change  all  that.  Now  don't  fly  off 
the  handle."  She  finally  consented  to  look  at  him.  "I'm 
not  going  to  blame  you  for  doing  what  you  did.  But 
there's  got  to  be  an  accounting — between  you  and  me. 
We  can  keep  it  in  the  family" — another  gentle  allusion 
to  Partridge's  claim  to  parenthood. 

"I  have  given  the  matter  considerable  thought,"  said 
Partridge,  speaking  at  last  but  still  weakly,  and  only  at 
the  cost  of  an  effort.  "I  have  thought  of  it  in  all  its 
phases." 

Mme.  Jenesco  heard  him  with  the  tolerant  air  of 
one  who  might  have  said :  "Suppose  you  let  me  do  your 
thinking  for  you!" 

"I  am  convinced,"  said  Partridge,  with  a  degree  of 
detachment,  "that  this  will  prove  to  be  a  blessing  to  all 
of  us  in  the  long  run.  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  perceive. 
It  is  hard  to  adjust  our  idea  of  what  should  be,  with 
the  facts  as  they  are.  But,  of  course,  any  other  theory 
than  that  all  is  for  the  best  would  be  wrong.  That  way 

250 


The  Cup  of  Bitterness 

madness  lies.  We  must  have  faith.  We  must  have 
charity." 

"I  never  wanted  to  treat  you  rough,"  Mme.  Jenesco 
confessed  with  a  certain  indulgence.  "I  like  you.  I 
always  have  liked  you.  God  knows  you're  different 
enough  from  most  old  men  you  meet  in  New  York. 
Now  that  you're  beginning  to  wake  up,  we'll  get  along 
all  right  together." 

Partridge  seemed  to  know  that  this  was  merely  the 
storm-wind  disguised  as  a  breeze. 

"I  am  appealing  to  your  better  nature,"  he  said  sim 
ply  and  gently.  "I  want  you  to  go  away  from  here." 

"You  want— what  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  away  from  here,"  said  Partridge, 
a  little  less  gently. 

Mme.  Jenesco  measured  him  for  a  space. 

"We  settled  all  that." 

Partridge  wasn't  going  to  be  turned  aside.  He  con 
sulted  his  spiritual  records  of  the  night  before  as  a 
lawyer  might  have  consulted  his  law  books. 

"I  am  sure,"  he  said — although  clearly  he  was  not 
sure — "that  you  will  not  care  to  remain  here  when  you 
see  that  your  staying  here  may  harm  Miss  Tyrone.  Let 
me  continue" — this  to  quiet  a  stir  of  impatience  on  the 
part  of  the  Jenesco  woman.  "How  will  it  be  when  Mr. 
Buckhannon — who  is  a  most  refined  young  man,  and 
one  of  excellent  family — returns  to  find  that  his  fiancee 
smokes  cigarettes,  and  goes  to  musical  shows " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Mme.  Jenesco's  amused  laugh. 

"I  beg  of  you,"  Partridge  flared  urgently,  "to  consult 
251 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

your  own  conscience.    God  watches  you,  hears  you " 

"You're  a  nice  one  to  preach,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"God  pity  me,  I  am!"  Partridge  confessed.  "But  I 
stand  ready  to  sacrifice  myself  for  Miss  Tyrone's  sake. 
I  have  been  long  in  the  family.  It  has  been  the  only 
family  I  have." 

"Say!"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "I've  heard  enough  of 
this.  You  make  me  sick.  I  give  you  an  inch  and  you 
take  an  ell.  That's  the  sort  you  are.  Just  because  I 
consented  to  humoi  you  when  you  insulted  my  mother's 
memory  by  claiming  to  be  my  father,  you  think  that 
I'm  a  ninny.  Why  don't  you  treat  me  like  a  Tyrone, 
since  you're  so  devoted  to  the  Tyrones.  I'm  a  Tyrone. 
And  I'm  ready  to  go  to  court  any  time  you  are,  and 
prove  it.  You're  not  so  crazy  as  all  that.  I  give  you 
credit  for  the  brains  you  have.  You  must  have  had 
some  brains  to  get  your  hands  on  the  Tyrone  fortune. 
But  you've  had  it  long  enough.  It's  mine.  My  mother 
was  the  only  real  wife  Nathan  Tyrone  ever  had,  if  it 
comes  to  that.  Who's  this  Melissine?  She's  nothing 
but  a " 

"Hush!  before  God!"  shuddered  Partridge. 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  cried  Mme.  Jenesco.  "Why 
should  I  hush?  Why  should  one  girl  get  all  the  pro 
tection  and  another  girl  get  none?  It  wasn't  my  fault 
— was  it — that  my  mother  didn't  want  to  stay  in  this 
rotten  old  house.  I  don't  blame  her.  It  wasn't  her 
that  gave  the  house  the  bad  name  it's  got.  She  had 
some  refinement.  She  had  some  sense  of  decency.  She 
knew  what  sort  of  a  dump  this  was.  She  knew  what 

252 


The  Cup  of  Bitterness 

sort  of  a  reputation  you'd  given  it — you  and  your  Nathan 
Tyrone.  I  say  it,  even  if  he  was  my  father." 

This  latter  statement  of  hers,  and  the  spectacle  ofc 
Partridge's  present  helplessness,  stirred  her  courage  to  a 
fresh  display. 

"I  know  now  why  you  claimed  to  be  my  father.  I 
know.  I  know  who  your  real  sweetheart  was.  I've  seen 
the  way  you  looked  at  the  portrait  of  that  little  French 
actress  in  the  other  room.  I  noticed  it  the  very  first 
time  I  came  here.  But  I  didn't  say  anything  about  it 
then.  I  was  trying  to  be  decent.  But  you!  You  don't 
know  what  decency  is.  Who  was  she — this  French  doll 
that  you  claim  Tyrone  married  in  Paris?  I'll  tell  you. 
She  was  a  little  demi-mon daine !  That's  what  she  was. 
Ah,  I  knew  that'd  get  you!  Sure!  It's  all  right  to 
insult  my  mother.  But  insult  her!  That's  a  different 
story !" 

"I  beg  of  you/'  said  Partridge.  "I  appeal  to  your 
better  nature !" 

But  Mme.  Jenesco  clung  to  her  inspiration. 

"And  shall  I  tell  you  why?  I'll  tell  you  why.  It  was 
because  my  mother  was  above  letting  a  servant  make 
love  to  her " 

"Oh!  Oh!"  cried  Partridge  softly,  striking  the  air 
with  his  fists. 

"And  because  this  French  woman,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco, 
with  a  sudden,  sultry  impressiveness,  "was  not!" 

"Woman!  Woman!"  gasped  Partridge.  "This  is 
blasphemy !" 

And  there  was  such  a  look  about  him  that  even  Mme. 
253 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Jenesco  had  a  moment  of  recoil.  Partridge  had  cast 
his  eyes  about  him.  A  little  more  and  he  might  have 
seized  one  of  the  heavy  silver  candlesticks  that  stood 
near,  and  have  used  it  as  a  club. 

But,  just  then,  Partridge  saw  something  that  Mme. 
Jenesco  hadn't  seen  and  which  made  his  terror  greater 
than  his  rage.  Where  he  stood  he  could  see  through 
the  length  of  the  house.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Melissine  coming  slowly  down  the  stairs.  He  clapped 
a  hand  to  his  heart.  He  tried  to  speak.  His  face  went 
haggard.  His  knees  sagged. 

Apparently  he  had  intended  merely  to  approach  Mme. 
Jenesco  somewhat  to  warn  her  to  be  more  careful,  to 
keep  her  voice  down.  But  his  step  was  shambling.  A 
carpet  interfered  with  the  movement  of  his  feet. 

He  stumbled.    He  went  to  his  knees. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
AFTER  THIS  THE  JUDGMENT 

SEE,"  said  Partridge.  "I  humble  myself  before  you." 
His  voice  was  a  little  more  than  a  croaking 
whisper. 

"It  isn't  on  my  own  account.  It  is  on  your  account 
as  much  as  any  one's.  God  on  His  throne  knows  that 
I  wish  nothing  but  good  to  you  and  every  one.  Forgive 
me  the  wrath  I  have  shown.  I  have  been  over-zealous. 
But  say  nothing  more.  Say  nothing  more.  Say  nothing 
more." 

Nothing  that  Partridge  could  have  said  would  have 
been  more  eloquent  than  that  triple  appeal  of  his  to  say 
nothing  more. 

"I  knew  it!"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  She  had  drawn 
back  a  little  at  Partridge's  sudden  collapse.  She  looked 
down  at  him.  But  she  was  now  moved  most  of  all  by 
what  seemed  to  be  proof  of  her  amazing  charge.  "I 
knew  that  there  was  something  crooked  somewhere  and 
that  my  own  mother  wasn't  mixed  up  in  it  in  any  way. 
So  it  was  this  French  woman,  was  it?" 

"No!    No!    What  you  say  is  blasphemy!" 

"It  wasn't  so  long  as  you  were  saying  it  about  my 
mother.  Was  it?" 

255 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 


"I  beseech  you- 


"I  don't  blame  you  for  getting  excited.  It  would 
sound  fine  coming  out  before  a  judge  and  jury  how  you 
and  Tyrone  had  robbed  an  American  lady  of  her  rights 
all  on  account  of  some  rotten  little  chorus-girl  from 
Paris." 

Partridge's  beseechment  was  now  principally  of  his 
eyes.  He  had  an  ear  for  the  things  that  Mme.  Jenesco 
was  saying,  but  one  would  have  said  that  his  whole 
body  had  become  an  ear  for  the  sound  of  something 
else.  What  was  that  shadow  he  had  seen — or  thought 
he  had  seen — on  the  stairs  ?  He  looked  at  the  doorway. 
He  looked  at  Mme.  Jenesco.  Himself,  and  the  position 
he  was  in — on  his  knees  before  this  pagan  goddess,  so 
to  speak — he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  utterly. 

"You  wouldn't  ruin  her  young  life,"  said  Partridge. 

"Her!    Her!    Always  her  1" 

"She  loves  you !" 

Mme.  Jenesco  began  to  laugh.  From  sheer  nervous 
ness  and  a  touch  of  hysteria  she  picked  up  a  glass  and 
suddenly  hurled  it  against  a  corner  of  the  window- frame. 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  fire  you  or  to  keep  you 
here,"  she  said,  "fire  Melissine  or  keep  her  here !  What 
are  you  croaking  about?  Haven't  I  been  fond  of  the 
little  thing  myself?" 

She  was  smitten  .by  a  sort  of  silence  that  had  fallen 
upon  the  room — the  sort  of  silence  that  one  feels  when 
suddenly  discovering  that  something  unguessed,  some 
thing  unforeseen,  has  come  to  pass.  Or  perhaps  it  was 
the  fact  that  Partridge  was  again  staring  toward  the 

256 


After  TMs  the  Judgment 

Doorway  that  led  into  the  hall.  She  turned  lazily  to  see 
what  it  was  that  Partridge  was  looking  at. 

And  there  stood  Melissine. 

This,  and  absolute  silence — Melissine  standing  there 
at  the  shadowy  doorway,  dressed  in  white,  a  white 
solemnity  about  her,  a  calm  that  had  a  touch  of  the  awe- 
inspiring  about  it,  a  touch  of  the  terror-inspiring,  even; 
and  then  Mme.  Jenesco,  robed  in  her  black  and  em 
broidered  kimono,  coiling  herself  into  some  sort  of  readi 
ness  for  action,  whether  a  spring  or  a  caress  none  could 
have  said;  and  then  Partridge,  still  on  his  knees,  fum 
bling,  broken,  yet  with  a  look  in  his  face  that  here  was 
judgment. 

Mme.  Jenesco  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  a  turn  you  gave  me !"  she  cried.  She  tittered. 
She  turned  to  Partridge.  "Be  careful  not  to  cut  your 
fingers."  She  turned  again  to  Melissine.  "I  dropped 
a  glass.  Why,  what's  come  over  you,  child  ?  Come  here 
and  kiss  me,  silly." 

Partridge,  though,  was  beyond  such  acting.  So  was 
Melissine.  Melissine  watched  Partridge  getting  slowly 
to  his  feet.  Partridge  retired  a  little — like  an  old  man 
dazed  from  a  fall;  his  knees  were  bent;  his  white  hair 
was  slightly  disordered.  And  then  Melissine  was  look 
ing  at  Mme.  Jenesco  again.  Several  times  Melissine 
had  trembled  on  the  brink  of  speech,  then  seemed  to 
have  sought  words  that  would  be  more  sufficient  for 
what  she  wanted  to  say. 

Mme.  Jenesco,  drawing  her  kimono  about  her,  was 
for  acting,  still.  She  kicked  a  piece  of  the  broken 

257 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

tumbler  under  the  table  with  her  slippered  foot.  She 
arose.  She  seemed  to  entertain  the  purpose  of  taking 
Melissine  into  her  arms. 

But  Melissine  retired  a  step. 

On  Melissine's  face  there  had  appeared  what  for 
want  of  a  better  name  will  have  to  be  called  a  smile, 
but  which  was  really  no  smile  at  all.  A  real  smile  is  a 
smile  of  the  eyes.  In  Melissine's  blue  eyes  there  was 
no  smile  at  all.  There  was  no  smile  in  her  gentle  voice 
' — just  that  profundity  of  interest. 

"Was  that  my  mother  you  were  talking  about?"  she 
inquired. 

"Listen  to  the  child !" 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  father  and  mother  were 
not — what  they  call — legally  married  ?" 

"Why,  where  in  the  world  did  you  get  that?"  splut 
tered  the  Woman  in  Black. 

Now  that  a  question  had  been  asked  by  Mme.  Jenesco 
herself  Melissine  was  perfectly  willing  to  answer.  May 
be,  like  that,  Mme.  Jenesco  also  would  begin  to  answer 
questions. 

"I  got  it,"  answered  Melissine,  with  just  enough  ac 
cent  on  the  "got"  to  make  Mme.  Jenesco  wince,  "from 
what  you  were  just  saying  to  Mr.  Partridge." 

Here  was  Mme.  Jenesco's  chance  to  counter.  Still 
she  tried  to  rescue  the  situation  by  remaining  playful. 

"Little  eavesdroppers  often  overhear  things  that  they 
don't  understand."  An  arch  observation. 

"I  wasn't  eavesdropping,"  said  Melissine  quite  steadily 
and  with  no  semblance  of  heat.  "Your  voice  was  so 

258 


After  This  the  Judgment 

loud  that  it  could  have  been  heard  through  the  house." 

"I  like  that/'  remarked  Mme.  Jenesco,  meaning  that 
she  didn't. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  began  to  speak,  Melissine 
directed  her  attention  to  Partridge. 

"It  appears,"  she  said — and  she  spoke  with  that  form 
alism  of  another  century  which  her  father  had  always 
loved  and  encouraged — "it  appears,  from  what  Mme. 
Jenesco  just  said,  that  there  is  a  blot  on  the  family 
escutcheon." 

"There  is  none,"  quoth  Partridge. 

"Quoth"  expresses  Partridge's  tone -of  voice,  although 
it  was  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

Melissine's  attention  returned  to  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"There  is  absolutely  no  occasion  for  half  truths  or 
evasions,"  Melissine  proclaimed.  "I  have  read  a  good 
deal  on  the  subject  from  a  purely  legal  standpoint  in 
one  of  Judge  Bancroft's  works.  I  share  his  opinion 
that  stultification  of  the  child  through  a  lack  of  legal 
formality  in  the  relations  of  the  parents  is  justified — 
in  the  eyes  of  man — if  not  in  the  eyes  of  God." 

"Dearie!"  exclaimed  Mme.  Jenesco,  "I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about."  And  again  that  movement 
indicated  a  readiness  to  receive  Melissine  into  her  arms. 

"Was  it  true,"  demanded  Melissine  with  a  slight  rise 
in  her  temperature,  "that  my  father  had  a  former  wife  ?" 

Partridge  shouted.  He  shouted,  "No!"  But  his  open 
mouth  gave  out  no  sound.  It  was  something  like  that 
so  far  as  Mme.  Jenesco  was  concerned.  A  gasp  from 

259 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

h'er.    Though  this  might  have  been  intended  for  an  af 
firmative. 

^And  that  you  were — his  daughter — and  hers?" 

Melissine  had  spoken  very  slowly — so  slowly  that  it 
had  given  both  Partridge  and  Mme.  Jenesco  the  chance 
to  summon  the  power  of  speech  they  saw  they  were  go 
ing  to  need. 

"No!  No!"  clamored  Partridge,  in  a  voice  that  was 
big,  but  which  was  husky  and  not  very  loud.  "It's  all 
a  damnable  lie.  It  is  not  true!" 

Mme.  Jenesco  whirled  on  him  with  the  sure  instinct 
that  it  would  be  easier  far  to  fight  this  old  man  whom 
she  had  already  vanquished  than  it  would  be  to  fight 
Melissine.  She  understood  Partridge.  But — for  the  sec 
ond  or  third  time  since  coming  to  this  house — she  was 
aware  that  there  was  something  about  Melissine  that  she 
did  not  understand.  It  was  something  that  frightened 
her  a  little.  The  girl,  especially  now,  wasn't  a  girl  so 
much  as  she  was  a  shaft  of  light — a  daylight  ghost,  so 
to  speak. 

"If  I  was  you,"  said  Belle  to  Partridge,  "I  wouldn't 
talk  about  lies  and  liars.  I'd  keep  my  mouth  shut." 

But  Melissine  wouldn't  be  ignored.  She  gave  an  odd 
little  cry  so  sharp  that  it  commanded  silence.  But  when 
she  did  speak  her  voice  was  not  so  very  loud — just  cold 
and  final. 

"Stop  it !"  she  said.  "I  won't  let  anyone  speak  to  him 
like  that.  He's " 

And  then  Belle  broke  in  on  her. 
260 


'After  This  the  Judgment 

"That's  it;  stand  up  for  him,"  she  bawled.  "You 
ought  to.  That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you.  Nathan  Tyrone 
wasn't  your  father.  You've  been  fooled  long  enough. 
That's  him ! — that's  your  father  standin'  over  there !" 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

MR.    PARTRIDGE,    THIEF ! 

MELISSINE  may  have  given  a  slight  gasp,  as  of 
pain,  but  she  remained  motionless,  flaming  white, 
listening. 

"It's  a  lie !" 

This  from  Partridge,  in  a  breathless,  husky  whisper. 
He  was  no  longer  the  supplicant.  He  was  anything  but 
that.  His  slightly  ruffled  hair  and  disordered  clothing 
gave  him  an  added  touch.  He  was  fighting-mad. 

Mme.  Jenesco  may  have  suspected  that  her  sheep 
had  become  wolves.  She  was  controlling  her  temper 
by  this  time. 

"How  do  you  dare  to  deny  it  ?"  she  began  with  scorn. 

But  Partridge  was  back  at  her  in  an  instant: 

"Hold  your  tongue  and  let  me  finish !  I  say  that 
when  you  suggest  such  a  thing  you  suggest  an  outrageous 
and  sacrilegious  lie.  I  say  that  you  have  no  right  in 
this  house  whatsoever  except  as  the  guest  of  my  mis 
tress — of  her  you  seek  to  traduce." 

"So  you're  going  to  force  the  issue!"  said  Mme. 
Jenesco. 

"I  have  stated  the  issue." 

"Oh,  you  have !" 

262 


Mr.  Partridge,  Thief! 

"The  only  issue  is  Miss  Tyrone's  good  name  and 
happiness."  , 

Somehow  or  other  Partridge  was  not  so  much  the 
butler  as  he  was  the  high  priest.  Even  about  him  there 
was  a  measure  of  that  quality  that  Mme.  Jenesco  had 
discovered  in  Melissine.  For  a  moment  she  may  have 
been  debating  a  flood  of  tears.  She  felt  as  if  she  might 
have  wept — wept  real  tears.  No,  this  would  have  been 
mere  weakness.  And  she  recalled  that  terror  that  had 
come  over  Partridge  the  very  first  day  of  her  advent 
in  this  house. 

"One  would  say  so,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco,  with  a  tone 
that  she  meant  to  be  finely  ironic.  "You  have  shown 
yourself  to  be  a  very  good  friend  of  Melissine's ;  haven't 
you?"  Partridge  knew  what  was  coming.  "Oh,  very 
well,"  Mme.  Jenesco  essayed  again.  "I  wanted  to  be 
decent.  I  wanted  to  shield  Melissine,  even  if  she  wasn't 
anything  but — but — "  She  didn't  complete  the  phrase. 

Partridge  dominated  her  with  his  new-found  author 
ity.  He  had  drawn  himself  up.  He  spoke  direct  to 
Melissine.  And  his  eyes  were  on  Melissine.  But  there 
was  that  about  him  to  indicate  that  it  was  not  Melissine 
at  all  to  whom  he  spoke  or  at  whom  he  looked.  It  was 
just  as  if  Partridge  were  addressing  his  own  conscience 
standing  there  in  front  of  him,  that  or  a  ghost. 

"This  woman,"  said  Partridge,  "began  with  the  claim 
that  Mr.  Tyrone  was  her  father — God  save  the  mark! 
She  pretended  that  this  would  be  sufficient  collateral 
evidence,  if  brought  before  the  courts  (Partridge  was 
quoting  as  best  he  could  from  Judge  Bancroft)  to  sub- 

263 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

stantiate  her  claim — the  fact  that  certain  moneys  had 
been  paid  through  a  period  of  years,  first  to  her  mother 
and  then  to  herself.  This  has  become  the  basis  of  a 
blackmail " 

"Don't  you  dare  to  call  me  a  blackmailer,"  Mme. 
Jenesco  interjected.  A  mere  scramble  on  her  part  to 
get  to  the  top  of  the  heap. 

But  Partridge  remained  dominant. 

"I  have  already  informed  her,"  he  continued,  "that 
I  accept  full  responsibility."  Partridge  was  winging 
like  an  eagle  now — very  high  up,  sure  of  himself,  poised, 
making  no  effort.  "I  have  told  her  that  it  was  I  who 
was  her  father,  that  it  was  I  who  made  the  payments 
of  money." 

"Without  Mr.  Tyrone  knowing  anything  about  it?" — 
this  from  Mme.  Jenesco  in  a  seducing  softness. 

"Without  Mr.  Tyrone  knowing  anything  about  it,"  he 
averred. 

Mme.  Jenesco  turned  to  Melissine.  "That  makes  him 
out  to  be  a  thief,  at  any  rate,"  she  said.  "The  money 
wasn't  his.  He  took  it.  He  stole  it." 

"No,  no !"  said  Melissine. 

"But  I  say  yes !  Stole  it !  Ask  him  if  he  didn't !  He 
ought  to  go  to  prison !" 

"No!  No!"  protested  Melissine  again.  She  cast  a 
desperate  look  at  Partridge.  She  confronted  Mme. 
Jenesco  with  a  flaming  face.  "And,  after  all,  what  if  he 
did  take  any  money?  What's  that?  It  wasn't  for  him 
self.  It  must  have  been  because  he  loved  you  so.  It 
was  because  he  loved  your  mother  so.  Why,  if  I  thought 

264 


Mr.  Partridge,  Thief! 

that — that  Mr.  Buckhannon  needed  money — and  I  knew 
where  some  was — that  no  one  else  really  needed — — " 

She  came  to  a  faltering  stop,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
It  was  Mme.  Jenesco's  attitude  that  stopped  her. 

"There  are  things  about  this  that  you  don't  under 
stand  at  all,"  Mme.  Jenesco  said  tensely.  "Maybe,  after 
you  know  all  the  facts,  you  won't  be  so  ready  to  defend 
—this  thief !" 

"Mr.  Tyrone  was  not  a  party  to  the  payments,"  said 
Partridge.  "Mr.  Tyrone  never  concerned  himself  with 
money  matters.  It  was  I  who  was  entrusted  with  the 
handling  of  his  funds." 

All  right.     Mme.  Jenesco  had  him  either  way. 

"So  you  did  steal  the  money  you  gave  us!" 

"Yes,"  said  Partridge;  "I  did!" 

Saying  which,  Partridge  must  have  discovered  that 
he  had  said  everything  that  he  had  to  say  just  then — 
to  his  conscience,  at  least.  He  wavered  for  a  moment 
or  so  longer — just  long  enough  to  become  quite  sure  of 
this.  Then  he  seemed  to  recognize  that  he  was  no  longer 
the  soaring  eagle  that  he  had  been.  He  was  just  the 
old  man  who  had  been  a  servant  in  this  house  so  long 
— a  man  old,  decrepit,  beginning  to  dodder. 

Abruptly,  in  order  to  save  his  dignity — and  he  saved 
it — he  turned  and  picked  up  the  forgotten  breakfast-tray 
and  carried  it  out  of  the  room. 

Melissine  had  barely  stirred.  Possibly  she  hadn't 
stirred  at  all.  She  had  an  appearance  of  arrested  move 
ment,  of  arrested  something  finer  than  movement — flush 

265 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

on  her  face,  eyes  liquid  with  blue  fire,  lips  parted,  and 
her  breast  had  ceased  to  rise  and  fall.  Then  she  sighed. 

But  that  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  after  Partridge  had 
made  his  exit. 

The  interval  had  been  long  enough  for  Mme.  Jenesco 
to  collapse — "collapse"  expresses  it — into  the  chair  she 
had  vacated  about  a  hundred  years  ago.  It  seemed  like 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Mme.  Jenesco  was  flabbergasted. 
She  didn't  know  what  to  do.  She  wanted  to  laugh.  She 
wanted  to  cry.  It  was  all  too  ridiculous.  And  yet  it 
wasn't  funny  at  all.  The  old  fool  had  put  himself  into 
her  power.  He  had  confessed  to  a  crime  that  could 
send  him  up  the  river  for  the  rest  of  his  natural.  (The 
phrasing  is  Mme.  Jenesco's.)  And  yet  she  didn't  feel 
that  she  had  him  in  her  power  at  all. 

She  looked  up  and  found  that  Melissine  was  looking 
at  her,  and  the  expression  in  Melissine's  face  made 
Mme.  Jenesco  feel  more  uncomfortable  still. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

SUSPENDED  JUDGMENT 

WHAT  was  that  thing  you  were  saying  about  Par 
tridge  and  my  mother?"  Melissine  asked  softly. 
"It  was  nothing." 

"But  what  I  heard  was  more  than  nothing." 

"I  must  have  lost  my  temper — we  all  say  things  that 
we  don't  mean  when  we're  excited." 

"This  was  so  much  like  something  that  you  hinted 
the  other  day — that  I  was  too  stupid  or  ignorant  then 
to  understand.  It  was  when  you  spoke  of  passion.  Don't 
you  remember?" 

"Darling,"  said  Belle.  "Come  to  me!  Come  to  my 
arms !" 

Instead  of  accepting  the  invitation,  Melissine  walked 
over  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  She  did  not  smile. 
Yet  she  showed  no  anger.  Except  for  a  certain  pallor 
there  was  no  evidence  of  any  great  emotion  about  her 
at  all. 

"I  am  so  unhappy,"  said  Belle,  and  she  began  to 
weep. 

Melissine  remained  at  the  window.  She  didn't  turn. 
But  finally  she  spoke: 

"Maybe  you'd  feel  better  if  you  let  me  go  to  Partridge 
267 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

and  tell  him  that  you  want  to  beg  his  pardon — tell  him 
that  you  didn't  mean  all  you  said — and  that  you  know 
he  isn't  a  thief." 

"No  thank  you,"  said  Belle.  "I'm  going  to  my  room." 
And  she  got  up,  pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 

But  Melissine  turned  now,  and  they  faced  each  other. 

"Are  you  going  to  remain  with  us,  or  are  you  going 
away?"  Melissine  asked  with  perfect  politeness. 

This  gave  Belle  pause.  She  had  had  enough  of  right 
ing  for  the  moment.  She  loved  luxury  more  than  strife. 
But  she  couldn't  let  the  great  adventure  die  like  this. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

Melissine's  answer  was  indirect.  Melissine  was  show 
ing  a  sharper  sign  of  grief.  But  she  was  strong — 
with  a  strength  that  Belle  found  disconcerting. 

"The  house  has  a  bad  name/'  said  Melissine,  with  a 
dejected  little  laugh;  "and  so  have  I,  and  father,  and 
mother,  and  Partridge.  Surely  you  can't  want  to  re 
main  in  such  a  place,  with  people  like  Partridge  and 
me." 

"What  would  you  like  to  see  me  do?"  Belle  asked. 

Melissine  took  time  to  think.  She  walked  about  the 
room  a  bit,  looking  at  this  thing  and  that,  while  Mme. 
Jenesco  watched  her,  furtively,  using  the  time  to  do 
some  thinking  of  her  own.  When  Melissine  turned  their 
eyes  met.  They  were  not  so  far  apart.  There  was  some 
sort  of  a  silent  conflict  between  them  before  Melissine 
spoke. 

"I  want  you  to  stay." 

"Sure?" 

268 


Suspended  Judgment 

"Yes;  I'm  sure." 

"After  all  that's  been  said?" 

"Because  of  what's  been  said,"  Melissine  stated,  strug 
gling  to  express  her  thought.  "You're  wrong.  You're 
all  wrong.  It's  because  I  know  that  you're  all  wrong — 
about  me,  and  father,  and  mother,  and  Partridge,  just 
as  the  people  of  this  street  are  wrong  about  this  house 
— that  I  want  you  to  stay  here  and  find  out  the  truth." 

"Maybe  this  truth,  when  it  does  come  out,  will  make 
you  wish  it  hadn't,"  said  Belle.  There  was  no  menace 
in  her  words;  rather  it  was  .meant  as  a  friendly  warn 
ing.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Partridge  has  been 
holding  out  something.  Whether  it's  this  money  he 
stole " 

"He  never  stole!" 

"Are  you  so  sure?" 

"I'd  go  into  court  and  swear  it,"  said  Melissine.  "If 
it  were  necessary  I'd  swear  that  the  money  was  all  his." 

"But  what  if  it  was  mine?" 

"I  believe  you'd  do  the  same,"  Melissine  answered 
slowly.  "You  would  if  you'd  stay  here  long  enough. 
Stay  here  long  enough  and  you'll  love  him  as  much  as 
I  do — almost.  Stay  here  long  enough  and  you'll  under 
stand  how  I  trust  him  even  if  there  is  something  that 
he  can't  tell.  You  ought  to  wish  he  was  your  father !" 

All  this,  as  if  Melissine  were  under  a  spell,  the  spell 
of  a  recent  vision.  And  then  she  had  emerged  from 
the  spell  somewhat.  There  was  a  lessening  of  the  ten 
sion.  She  made  a  confession  of  her  own.  The  confes 
sion  was  a  plea  for  sympathy. 

269 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"You  know,"  she  said  softly,  "that  it  does  make  a 
difference  when  your  father  is  dead.  I've  tried  to  pre 
tend  that  it  didn't.  But  it  does.  It  wasn't  like  it  was 
with  mother.  I  couldn't  remember  her.  At  least,  my 
eyes,  and  my  hands,  and  my  arms  couldn't  remember 
her.  But  it's  different  now.  They  have  been  empty 
since  father  went  away." 

And  suddenly,  yet  without  obvious  transition,  this 
recent  figure  of  light  had  become  a  tearful  girl,  very 
lonely,  very  much  in  need  of  human  consolation. 

Ascribe  Mme.  Jenesco's  action  to  any  motive  that  you 
will.  Perhaps  that  lady  was  looking  for  something  to 
cling  to  quite  as  much  as  Melissine  was.  Or  possibly 
Mme.  Jenesco  wasn't  willing  to  submit  herself  even  to 
Melissine's  tearful  scrutiny  just  then.  There  were  tears 
in  Melissine's  eyes.  And  Melissine's  arms  were  out  as 
if  to  substantiate  what  she  had  to  say  about  their 
emptiness. 

In  any  case,  there  was  Mme.  Jenesco  with  Melissine 
huddled  against  her  knees,  and  Mme.  Jenesco's  own  arms 
about  Melissine.  There  had  been  nothing  strained  about 
this  reception  Mme.  Jenesco  had  given  the  girl,  either. 
One  would  have  said  that  Mme.  Jenesco's  arms,  just 
then,  were  satisfying  some  craving  of  her  own — some 
hunger  also  born  of  emptiness. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

THE  BRIDEGROOM    COMETH 

THEY  remained  there  for  a  rather  long  time,  neither 
of  them  mentioning  again  that  singular  confes 
sion  that  Partridge  had  made.     Neither  of  them 
had  said  anything  for  a  while  except  as  tears  and  silence 
may  be  said  to  be  a  sort  of  language. 

As  for  Melissine,  it  was  clear  that  she  was  thinking 
of  nothing  except  of  the  father  that  she  had  lost — and 
also  of  the  father  this  other  woman  had  rejected.  The 
Lord  only  knows  what  Mme.  Jenesco  may  have  been 
thinking  about — thinking  of  those  very  matters,  perhaps, 
she  would  think  about  when  she  stood  in  the  presence 
of  the  Lord  in  an  old-fashioned  Judgment  Day. 

It  was  Melissine  who  first  broke  the  silence.  Melis 
sine  was  an  intuitional  type.  Possibly  she  had  caught 
some  strand  of  the  older  woman's  thought,  felt  that  in 
some  odd  way  Mme.  Jenesco  was  really  the  one  who 
stood  in  the  greater  need  of  sympathy. 

"I've  thought  a  lot  about  the  things  that  people  do 
that  they  should  not  do,"  said  Melissine. 

"Have  you" — from  Mme.  Jenesco,  with  a  species  of 
wonder. 

"About  sin!" 

271 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  sin." 

Melissine  nodded  her  head.  But  she  wiped  her  eyes 
before  she  looked  up.  Mme.  Jenesco  met  her  gaze,  try 
ing  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  girl's  train  of  thought. 

"I  know  that  it  must  be  the  most  important  thing  in 
the  world,"  Melissine  announced  with  calm  judgment. 

"For  the  love  of — "  Mme.  Jenesco  checked  herself. 
She  took  a  fresh  turn.  Maybe  there  was  something 
about  this  girl  that  she  wouldn't  have  believed.  Her 
continuation  was  more  in  the  nature  of  a  leading  ques 
tion:  "Why,  you've  never  been  out  of  the  house  after 
dark  in  your  life." 

"I  never  have — not  when  it  was  very  dark." 

"Then  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"The  whole  Bible  was  written  about  sin — and  for  the 
sake  of  sinners,"  Melissine  began. 

"Oh !"  and  Mme.  Jenesco  breathed  more  easily. 

"And  all  the  law  books,"  Melissine  continued.  "No 
preacher  ever  talks  about  anything  else — at  least,  not 
in  any  of  the  books  of  sermons  I've  ever  run  across. 
Suppose  you  yourself  were  a  sinner." 

"Suppose  I  was,"  breathed  Mme.  Jenesco,  cautiously. 

"Don't  you  suppose  that  the  world  would  at  once  feel 
a  greater  interest  in  you  and  a  greater  love  for  you 
than  if  you  were  just  an  ordinary,  nice  woman?" 

"What  gives  you  that  idea?"  Mme.  Jenesco  coun 
tered. 

"Everything,"  said  Melissine.  "That's  just  what  I've 
been  talking  about.  The  whole  world — the  whole  civil 
ized  world — that  part  of  the  world  that  has  ever  written 

272 


The  Bridegroom  Cometh 

books,  at  least,  has  had  the  sinner's  interest  at  heart — 
you  know:  'The  joy  over  one  sinner,'  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

Melissine  was  patient,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
Melissine  was  finding  Mme.  Jenesco  a  bit  obtuse.  She 
waited  when  she  saw  that  Mme.  Jenesco  was  trying  to 
see  a  light. 

"That's  a  new  one  on  me,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"Maybe  that's  because  you  were  never  a  sinner  your 
self,"  said  Melissine. 

Mme.  Jenesco  suppressed  an  expression  that  had  been 
on  the  tip  of  her  tongue.  "Oh,  I  see  what  you're  driv 
ing  at,"  she  said.  "You  mean — the  reformers!  Sure, 
dearie !  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  won't  get  mad  if 
I  tell  you  something!" 

"Of  course  not." 

"I  never  cared  much  for  these  reformers.  As  a  rule, 
you'll  find  that  they're  just  as  rotten  as  the  rest  of 
them." 

Melissine  studied  Mme.  Jenesco  for  a  time,  not  sure 
that  she  had  seized  Mme.  Jenesco's  meaning.  But  she 
saw  that  she  had.  She  said  so. 

"You  mean  the  Philistines — the  holier-thah-thou  kind." 

Mme.  Jenesco  took  a  chance  and  said,  "Yes." 

"I  don't  blame  you." 

"Then  we're  of  one  mind,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco  with 
almost  her  first  smile.  This  dipping  into  the  waters  of 
transgression  hadn't  pleased  her  any  too  much. 

"Are  we  of  one  mind?"  queried  Melissine. 

"Of  course  we  are." 

273 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Then  why  were  you  so  hard  on  poor  Partridge?  I 
call  him  Grandy.  He  used  to  play  horse  for  me  when 
I  was  little !  He  taught  me  how  to  read  and  spell !  If 
I  was  thirsty  or  frightened  in  the  night,  he  was  there. 
His  voice  was  so  soft  and  his  face  was  so  gentle  !  When 
I  used  to  say  'Now-I-lay-me'  I  used  to  think  of  God 
Himself  as  a  sort  of  great  white  Grandy  there  leaning 
over  me,  and  I'd  feel  happy  and  willing  to  go  to  sleep." 

"I  didn't  want  to  be  hard  on  the  old  man,"  Mme. 
Jenesco  whispered. 

Melissine  reached  up  and  touched  her  cheek  with  soft 
fingers. 

"And  I  know,"  said  Melissine,  "that  you  really  didn't 
mean  what  you  said  about  your  mother  and  my  mother." 

Mme.  Jenesco's  answer  was  premeditated. 

"No,"  she  said,  after  brief  but  serious  thought;  "I 
swear  to  God  that  I  didn't  mean  it,  and  that  I  shall 
never  say  such  a  thing  again." 

"I  love  you,"  said  Melissine.  She  gave  a  tart  flavor 
to  the  otherwise  rather  tame  assertion  by  adding:  "So 
does  Grandy." 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"Because  I  had  my  doubts,  for  a  while,  and  I  made 
him  come  right  out  and  say  that  he  did.  And  now  I 
think  that  both  of  us  must  love  him  more  than  ever— 
if  that  is  dearly  possible."  (Melissine's  rendition  of 
the  French  Dieu  possible.} 

This  may  have  been  a  little  too  much  for  Mme.  Jenesco 
right  away.  She  was  from  a  part  of  the  world  where 
such  things  were  not  done. 

274 


The  Bridegroom  Cometh 

She  changed  the  conversation  to  what  she  knew  would 
be  pleasanter  lines.  "And  when,"  she  asked,  "is  that 
young  Mr.  Buckhannon  coming  back?" 

"Next  week." 

"Listen,"  said  Belle.  "If  I  was  you,  sweetheart,  I 
wouldn't  tell  him  anything  about  all  this.  You  know; 
it'd  only  worry  him.  And,  as  a  rule,  the  less  you  tell 
men  the  better  you  are  off  anyway." 


DARK   O'   THE   NIGHT 

WHEN  Eugene  Buckhannon  came  back  to  Cinna 
mon  Street  it  was  with  an  almost  painful  sense 
of  loss.  At  the  same  time  he  couldn't  tell  whether 
he  should  be  grateful  for  this  loss  or  whether  he  should 
go  and  drown  himself  because  of  it. 

Young  men  are  often  subject  to  these  contrary  reac 
tions,  while  life  is  still  fluid,  and  while  they  are  still 
confined  to  this  fluid  condition — like  the  larva  of  certain 
insects,  condemned  at  first  to  a  purely  aquatic  existence, 
but  destined  later  to  the  development  of  wings  and  a 
life  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

Buckhannon's  sense  of  loss  came  down  to  this: 

He  had  been  through  a  wonderful  experience.  It  had 
been  a  species  of  dream.  He  had  thought  it  was  real. 
But  it  couldn't  have  been  real.  Nothing  real  could  have 
been  so  wonderful.  Now  he  was  waked  up.  He  had 
his  feet  on  the  earth.  He  was  altogether  sane.  It  was 
the  old  glamour  that  he  was  to  find  missing — the  old 
dream  quality — the  poetic  touch  of  madness.  He  had  lost 
all  this  in  Tennessee. 

And  what  was  that  thing  Lafcadio  Hearn  had  said 
about  there  being  a  touch  of  ghostliness  about  all  great 

276 


Dark  of  the  Night 

art?  Didn't  the  same  apply  equally  well  to  all  great 
living?  Life  would  be  brutal,  life  would  be  swinish, 
without  its  tinge  of  unearthliness,  its  occasional  mist 
of  hallucination. 

Yet  now  he  was  going  to  find  that  Melissine  was  just 
an  ordinary  girl;  lovely,  doubtless,  but  no  lovelier  than 
many  of  the  many,  many  lovely  creatures  of  his  native 
State. 

To  bring  him  back  to  the  larva  or  wriggler  figure  of 
speech,  said  wriggler  had  wriggled  to  the  surface  of  its 
fluid  habitat  and  glimpsed  a  wider  world.  Then,  as 
wrigglers  will,  when  not  obedient  to  any  higher  im 
pulse,  he  had  settled  down  again. 

But  straightway  he  was  back  in  Cinnamon  Street 
again,  once  more  the  spell  was  upon  him. 

It  had  so  happened  that  his  train  had  brought  him 
into  New  York  late.  It  was  far  too  late  to  call.  It 
was  going  on  eleven  o'clock.  Naturally,  the  best  thing 
he  could  do  was  to  go  straight  to  his  hotel  and  get 
his  clothes  unpacked  and  take  a  good  bath  and  then 
go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  night's  sleep  so  as  to  be  fresh 
in  the  morning.  That  was  the  sensible  thing.  He  had 
it  all  reasoned  out. 

But  if  there  is  one  thing  in  the  world  that  youth  will 
not  do  that  thing  is  to  be  obedient  to  the  dictates  of  the 
sensible. 

Buckhannon  did  go  to  his  usual  hotel — a  small  one, 
far  down-town  in  the  neighborhood  of  Washington 
Square — not  so  very  far  from  Cinnamon  Street.  And 
he  took  his  bath.  But  long  before  the  water  was  drawn 

277 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

he  knew  that  it  wasn't  going  to  be  bed  right  afterward. 
Already  Cinnamon  Street  was  calling  to  him  with  a 
thousand  siren  voices. 

Out  into  the  street  he  went,  no  lonper  feeling  tired, 
wondering  how  he  could  have  stayed  away  so  long — • 
two  weeks — and  he  had  almost  decided  to  make  it  three 
on  the  petition  of  his  mother! 

Almost  midnight  when  he  rounded  Cape  Tony  Zam- 
boni  and  made  the  dark  roadstead  of  the  familiar  har 
bor.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the  street,  to  drop  the 
figure,  was  different  from  any  street  through  which  he 
had  passed.  To  one  side  of  No.  6  was  an  abandoned 
smithy  over  which  there  hung  an  ailanthus  tree — or  so- 
called  tree-of-heaven — and  this  was  in  full  flower,  thus 
shedding  about  it  a  faint,  sweet  perfume  something  like 
the  perfume  of  the  petunias  in  his  mother's  garden.  But 
those  were  locusts  in  the  graveyard  and  these  also  were 
in  bloom — a  redolence  of  young  summer — a  fragrance 
like  that  of  wild  grape  and  wild  honeysuckle. 

When  afflicted  by  spring- fever  in  his  early  boyhood, 
and  the  vague1  seasonal  yearnings  of  the  primitive  man, 
and  he  had  wandered  along  lonely  streams,  back  in  old 
Carroll  County,  it  had  been  a  fragrance  like  this  that 
had  inspired  his  breedings  and  found  lodgment  in  the 
back  of  his  brain.  It  all  returned  to  him  now.  He  was 
the  primitive  man.  This  was  the  lonely  wilderness.  He 
was  seeking  his  mate.  This  perfume  was  the  sign  of 
her  presence. 

Thus  the  very  air  of  Cinnamon  Street  had  brought 
back,  in  a  measure,  what  he  thought  he  had  lost. 

278 


Dark  o'  the  Night 

He  had  taken  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He  came 
to  a  pause  just  opposite  to  No.  6.  He  looked  at  it  as 
a  recently  disembodied  spirit  may  be  supposed  to  take 
its  first  look  at  some  familiar  marble  mansion  in  the 
sky.  The  same  touch  of  awe!  The  same  stir  of  fear 
ful  expectancy !  The  same  assurance  of  joy  to  come ! 
And  possibly  the  same  sort  of  recognition  as  of  some 
thing  seen  and  deeply  loved  before — if  there  be  any 
thing  in  the  theory  of  reincarnations ! 

To  all  ordinary  eyes  No.  6  would  have  appeared  as 
merely  a  once  noble  dwelling,  still  with  a  touch  of  the 
grand  about  it,  also  with  that  touch  of  tragic  mystery 
possessed  by  all  old  houses  that  stand  apart  in  the  dark 
ness  and  silence  of  a  deserted  street.  But  to  Buckhan- 
/ 

non  the  house  was  filled  as  with  an  inner  light.  This 
light  was  radiated  from  Melissine.  With  the  eyes  of 
his  soul  he  could  see  her  lying  there  asleep  in  an  upper 
chamber  undisturbed  and  as  if  native  to  the  radiance 
about  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  creature  of  the  sun. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  had  aspired  to  make  a  crea 
ture  like  this  his  bride !  Would  God  and  the  angels 
ever  forgive  him  for  such  an  effrontery!  Would  he 
ever  be  clean  enough  and  otherwise  worthy  enough! 

These  weren't  questions.  These  were  exclamations. 
Each  exclamation  was  in  the  nature  of  a  prayer. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  there  was  the  same  sort  of 
feeling  about  him  as  he  might  have  experienced  had  he 
been  back  in  Notre  Dame.  And  his  senses  abetted  him 
in  this.  The  mingled  perfume  of  the  locusts  and  the 
heaven- tree  became  the  pale  blue  smoke  of  the  swinging 

279 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

censers.  Once  more  the  muffled,  muted  sounds  of  the 
great  city  fell  into  the  majestic  "cadences  and  harmonies 
of  a  mighty  organ.  This  was  a  Miserere  that  was  being 
played — over  a  city  of  the  dead — five  million  sleepers 
who  to-morrow  would  rise  in  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

Buckhannon's  thought,  but  a  thought  developed  by  his 
thought  of  Melissine.  No  wonder  that  the  philosophers 
say  that  all  great  poems,  temples,  songs,  and  battles, 
even,  have  their  origin  in  some  man's  thought  of  some 
one  woman! 

But  various  philosophers  have  also  pointed  out  that 
just  as  a  man  attains  his  highest  flight  something  is  al 
most  bound  to  happen  to  him — "pride  goeth  before  a 
fall,"  and  so  on. 

While  Buckhannon  still  stood  there  seeing  things 
otherwise  invisible — seeing  them  with  the  eyes  of  his 
soul — the  eyes  of  his  body  recovered  their  vision,  re 
covered  their  ascendancy. 

At  first  he  could  not  persuade  himself  that  his  eyes 
were  not  deceiving  him.  This  was  a  hallucination  sure 
enough.  This  was  something  spun  from  the  incanta 
tions  of  those  three  he-witches :  the  druggist,  the  coach 
man,  and  the  policeman. 

But  what  he  saw  or  thought  that  he  saw  was  this : 

The  unlighted  door  of  No.  6  had  opened.  From  the 
inner  darkness  a  figure  had  emerged.  The  figure  was 
that  of  a  woman.  The  woman  was  dressed  in  black. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 
"KILLEEVY,  o  KILLEEVY  1" 

BUT  it  wasn't  very  long  before  he  had  identified 
this  sinister  shape.  This  was  the  Jenesco  woman 
— Belle ! — and  there  in  the  dark  there  was  a 
tingling  in  his  body  that  his  soul  spurned.  The  skin  of 
his  neck  was  as  if  gifted  with  a  memory  of  her  torrid 
breath,  and  his  sense  of  smell  with  a  souvenir  of  musk. 
This  was  night,  and  the  night  was  warm,  with  a  dark 
ness  and  a  solitude  about  it  like  that  of  mating-places 
when  the  world  was  young. 

What  was  she  doing?  Where  was  she  going?  What 
errand  had  brought  "her  from  the  house  like  this? 

There  was  no  mistaking  her.  There  was  a  movement 
about  her,  a  grace  and  a  sinuosity,  that  was  as  unmis 
takable  as  a  glimpse  of  her  face  would  have  been.  Her 
face  came  back  to  his  memory  also — the  red  lips  and 
the  dark-burning  eyes,  the  pearl-white  skin  all  of  one 
tone  that  made  her  coppery  hair  so  warmly  rich. 

And  she  had  kissed  him.  She  had  put  her  arms  about 
him.  She  had  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  She  was  a 
keeper  of  secrets  that  would  be  his  for  the  asking.  He 
could  go  over  there  now,  if  he  wanted  to,  and  call  her 
by  her  first  name.  He  could  embrace  her  if  he  wanted 

281 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

to  and  she  would  tell  him  everything  he  wanted  to  know. 
And  maybe,  at  the  same  time,  he  would  be  doing  a 
good  deed — be  saving  her  from  something — saving  her 
from  some  one  she  was  now  going  to  meet. 

His  conscience  spoke  to  him :  "You're  a  hog.  You're 
filled  with  lust.  You're  not  thinking  of  saving  her  from 
anything.  You  merely  hanker  for  the  flesh." 

He  answered :    "I  know  I  am." 

But  the  inner  voice  had  given  him  pause.  It  had 
made  him  think  of  Melissine.  Wasn't  she  dwelling  in 
mystery  too?  Wasn't  she  innocent? — unaware  of  what 
was  going  on  ? — accepting  all  with  a  perfect  faith  ?  Yea, 
Lord !  There  was  a  white  majesty  about  Melissine  just 
now  that  made  him  ashamed  of  himself,  gave  him  an 
ascendency  over  his  lower  self. 

But  he  still  lingered  there.  He  saw  Mme.  Jenesco 
turn  to  the  left  along  Cinnamon  Street,  in  the  direction 
of  the  abandoned  chapel.  He  saw  her  swallowed  up  in 
the  shadows  that  lay  so  thick  along  the  chapel  fence. 
Once  more  she  appeared — a  fleeting  shadow,  disquiet 
ing,  enigmatic,  under  the  pale  shine  of  a  gas-lamp — and 
then  she  was  gone. 

It  all  made  him  feel  a  trifle  sick,  a  bit  desperate.  He 
made  no  effort  to  follow  her,  though.  For  one  night  he 
had  seen  enough.  He  returned  to  his  hotel  and  there 
fell  into  troubled  dreams. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mme.  Jenesco  had  gone  to  keep 
a  rendezvous.  She  was  cautious  about  it.  Once  well 
within  the  shadows  of  the  locust  trees  she  paused  and 

282 


"Killeevy,  O  Killeevy!" 

looked.  She  was  half  persuaded  to  turn  back.  She 
went  forward  again.  She  had  seen  a  darker  shadow 
huddled  on  the  stone  coping  at  the  base  of  the  fence 
a  little  farther  along.  This  darker  shadow  resolved 
itself  into  the  familiar  semblance  of  old  Goodenough, 
the  coachman. 

"So  you've  come,"  said  Goodenough  softly. 

He  had  pulled  himself  to  his  feet,  partly  by  aid  of 
the  iron  picket  to  w  hich  he  clung.  He  stood  there  waver 
ing  like  something  the  substance  of  which  was  a  mere 
coagulation  of  shadow. 

"What  did  you  want?"  queried  Mme.  Jenesco  with  a 
mingling  of  resentment  and  interest. 

"I  wanted  to  feast  these  eyes  upon  you,"  spake  the 
poet. 

"You've  been  doing  that  ever  since  I  came  to  this 
street,"  Mme.  Jenesco  replied.  "That  first  day,  there 
in  the  house,  when  you  came  with  your  wreath,  you 
stared  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  ghost.  Ever  since  then 
you've  kept  it  up — every  time  you've  seen  Miss  Tyrone 
and  me  out  for  a  walk,  every  time  we  hired  you  for  a 
drive." 

"You've  got  a  warm  heart,"  said  Goodenough,  staring 
at  her. 

"If  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't  be  here.  Asking  me  to  meet 
you  like  this !  And  me  agreeing  to  it !  Most  women 
would  have  called  a  cop!" 

"It  was  my  only  chance,"  Goodenough  replied  softly. 
"The  cop  on  this  beat  is  an  old  owl  named  Hickcock. 
This  is  the  only  time  of  night — while  he  is  eating  his 

283 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

supper  around  at  the  Dutchman's — that  he  isn't  spying 
about.  And  in  the  daytime  it's  the  druggist.  And  I 
did  want  to  see  you — to  speak  to  you.  Twice  now  I've 
dreamed  of  the  Angel  of  Death — up  in  the  haymow 
where  I  sleep — and  the  third  time — you  know !" 

A  weird  smile  appeared  on  old  Goodenough's  mask 
of  a  face.  Here  where  they  stood  the  shadows  were 
such  that  Goodenough's  face  was  transformed  to  a  de 
gree — transfigured  even;  he  was  the  semblance  of  a  man 
with  deep-set  eyes  under  a  broad  forehead,  a  straight 
nose,  a  mouth  expressive  of  controlled  but  passionate 
feeling.  He  had  become  the  figure  of  Goodenough  as 
Goodenough  might  have  looked  had  he  developed  into 
a  poet  sure  enough,  or  as  Goodenough  might  have  looked, 
say,  thjrty  years  ago. 

His  allusion  to  the  Dark  Angel  was  sufficient  to  hold 
Mme.  Jenesco  where  she  was,  further  to  arouse  her 
curiosity — and  her  sympathy  also,  perhaps. 

"You  said  that  you  had  something  to  tell  me,"  she 
said. 

"I  did."    But  Goodenough  was  hesitant. 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  have  already  told  you  a  part  of  it,"  Goodenough 
replied.  "I  asked  the  favor  of  your  presence  here  as 
one  might  who  is  condemned  to  die.  There  was  a  woman 
who  came  to  this  house  upward  of  thirty  years  ago. 
The  young  Tyrone  brought  her.  She  was  beautiful. 
No  woman  was  more  correctly  named.  Her  name  was 
Belle." 

"Belle!"  whispered  Mme.  Jenesco. 
284 


"Killeevy,  O  Killeevyr 

"Tell  me,"  pleaded  Goodenough.  His  own  voice  was 
but  little  more  than  a  murmur.  "Did  you  ever  know 
any  one  named  that?" 

"That  was  my  mother's  name,"  Mme.  Jenesco  an 
swered — with  bated  breath,  so  to  speak. 

"She  was  very  beautiful,"  said  Goodenough.  "She 
was  very  beautiful,  but  she  was  not  for  Nathan  Tyrone 
— this  woman — this  other  woman  named  Belle.  It  was 
because  you  looked  like  her — oh,  it  was  something  in 
your  eyes,  and  it  was  something  in  the  sound  of  your 
voice  and  it  was  in  the  way  your  head  was  balanced 
on  your  shoulders  when  you  walked — that  made  me 
want  to  see  you  here — made  me  crave  this  as  the  one 
last  thing  the  earth  could  give  me — except  the  resting 
place  for  this  broken  and  misused  old  body  of  mine." 

Again  Mme.  Jenesco  spoke  in  her  bated  whisper : 

"What  was  this  woman  to  you  ?" 

"Everything!" 

"You?" 

"My  gray  hair  was  black  and  curly  then,"  replied 
Goodenough  softly.  "My  shoulders  were  the  shoulders 
of  old  John  L.  Sullivan — and  him  in  his  prime.  I  was 
a  wine-drinker  then,  and  ah — the  old  familiar  juice 
made  a  Greek  god  of  me — a  god  of  poetry  and  love ! 
There  were  fast  horses  then — poems  in  horseflesh — the 
one- footed  horses  of  the  Greek  urns — Centaurs — and  I 
drove  them  for  the  elder  Pliny,  wherever  and  whenever 
I  would — up  through  the  bosky  glens  of  Central  Park — 
a  stop  at  the  old  tavern  on  the  top  of  McGowan's  Pass 
— and  on  to  the  rocks  and  romance  of  the  sparkling 

285 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Harlem.  The  Harlem  was  a  river  then,  and  the  banks 
of  it  were  like  the  Elysian  Fields  for  such  as  sought 
solitude  and  the  delights  of  Hymen." 

"All  that's  changed,"  breathed  Mme.  Jenesco  irrele 
vantly. 

"All  that  is  changed,"  Goodenough  echoed  solemnly. 
"She  was  my  bride  for  a  week.  Often  I  come  now  at 
night  to  look  into  this  old  acre  of  green.  It  was  here 
that  I  saw  her  last.  It  was  here  that  she  kissed  me 
good-by— 'Killeevy,  O  Killeevy !'  " 

"What  does  'Killeevy'  mean?" 

"  Tis  a  reference  to  a  poem,"  said  Goodenough. 

"What  poem?"  Mme.  Jenesco  was  speaking  as  one 
will — to  cast  a  mantle,  so  to  speak,  over  her  naked  and 
shivering  thought. 

"A  poem  that  has  been  the  story  of  my  life,"  said 
Goodenough.  "It's  called  The  Churchyard  Bride.'" 
And  he  quoted — as  much  for  his  own  delectation,  one 
would  have  said,  as  for  that  of  the  woman  who  gazed 
and  listened: 

"  'He  pressed  her  lips  as  the  words  were  spoken, 

Killeevy,  O  Killeevy ! 

And  his  banshee's  wail — now  far  and  broken — • 
Murmured  "Death"  as  he  gave  the  token  .  .  .'  " 

"And  was  that  all  that  you  wanted  to  say  to  me?" 
asked  Mme.  Jenesco  with  a  little  shiver. 

"I  wanted  to  know  what  became  of  her,"  said  Good- 
enough,  strangled. 

"Who?" 

286 


"Killeevy,  O  Kitteevy!" 

"Of  the  Belle  who  had  eyes  like  yours." 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence — the  comparative  silence 
of  lower  Manhattan  late  at  night.  But  there  were  all 
of  those  subdued  sounds  which  Buckhannon  had  heard 
a  while  ago.  And  perhaps  for  these  others,  standing 
here  now  in  Cinnamon  Street,  the  hoots  and  the  moans 
and  the  multiple  chorus  of  small  human  voices  trans 
lated  themselves  into  organ  music. 

"My  mother  died  fifteen  years  ago/'  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"Happy?" 

"Unhappy!" 

Goodenough  shed  a  tear. 

"There  is  only  one  more  thing  that  I  would  ask,"  he 
announced  in  his  halting  whisper.  "Before  she  died — 
perchance  in  the  last  moments — did  she  mention  any 
one  name  in  particular?" 

"She  mentioned  some  one  by  the  name  of  Ernest.  She 
wouldn't  tell  me  who  he  was.  Tell  me ;  was  "it  you  she 
meant  ?" 

Goodenough  breathed  slowly.  His  eyes  were  no  longer 
held  so  steadily  on  her  who  stood  here  in  front  of  him. 
When  he  spoke  it  was  as  if  to  himself,  but  he  spoke  with 
a  species  of  satisfaction  that  had  commendation  in  it — 
as  if  he  had  intended  some  one  else  besides  Mme.  Jenesco 
to  overhear. 

"That  will  remain  our  secret — hers  and  mine !" 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

THE    SMELL    OF    LOCUSTS 

THE  house  in  Cinnamon  Street,  old  No.  6,  had 
become  the  whole  world  for  Eugene  Buckhan- 
non.  All  his  earthly  life  was  centered  there.  Did 
it  cease  to  exist,  then  he  would  himself  have  become  a 
mere  errant  spirit  in  space. 

So  he  reflected,  feverish,  on  his  sleepless  pillow. 

His  uneasy  imagination  took  a  wider  flight.  For  No. 
6  revealed  itself  as  the  world  in  a  wider  sense.  It  was 
a  symbol  of  the  universe,  a  symbol  of  life,  and  of  the 
Creator  of  life!  This  house  with  a  bad  name  held 
within  it  the  whole  story  of  creation,  from  the  First 
Book  of  Moses  to  St.  John  the  Divine  and  his  Apoca 
lypse!  This  house  had  appeared  when  the  part  of  New 
York  in  which  it  stood  was  a  garden.  Then  had  come 
death,  and  God  knew  why.  And  since  then  death  and 
misery  and  mystery  had  taken  it  for  their  dwelling- 
place,  along  with  the  descendants  of  the  original  Adam 
and  the  original  Eve — just  as  these  things  had  made  a 
dwelling-place  of  the  world  at  large. 

Buckhannon  turned  his  pillow  over  and  cooled  his 
temples.  s 

But  why,  since  these  things  had  ever  abided  in  the 
288 


The  Smell  of  Locusts 

world,  did  people  care  to  go  on  with  the  burden  of 
living?  Why  the  fretful,  mortal  fascinations  of  this 
greater  house  with  a  bad  name  which  was  the  world? 

Ah — and  an  inspiration  came  to  him  as  he  now  lay 
there  staring  wide-eyed  up  into  the  darkness — it  was  be 
cause  even  in  this  cursed  world  there  had  always  been 
a  memory  and  an  expectation.  There  had  always  been 
that  golden  glint  of  love — as  of  something  experienced, 
as  of  something  yet  to  come! 

It  was  still  early  in  the  morning  when  Buckhannon 
returned  to  Cinnamon  Street.  The  sun  was  shining. 
The  sun  and  the  birds,  as  well,  were  in  the  locust  trees, 
and  the  smell  of  these  were  in  the  air  recalling  every 
thing  that  he  had  ever  felt  of  romance  and  aspiration. 
It  was  like  the  breath  of  Melissine  herself.  So  his  de 
voted  mind  was  telling  him.  He  ran  up  the  steps  of  the 
high  stoop.  His  hand  trembled  at  the  knocker. 

This  was  why  life  was  worth  living. 

And  scarcely  had  the  knocker  fallen  than  the  door 
swung  open.  Buckhannon  stepped  forward — a  light  in 
his  eyes,  a  song  in  his  heart.  It  was  Mme.  Jenesco  who 
was  there.  It  was  she  who  had  opened  the  door.  It 
was  she  who  stood  in  front  of  him  now.  And  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  say  which  one  of  them  was  the  more 
surprised,  the  more  confused. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  Buckhannon  faltered. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

And  her  own  embrassment  was  such  that  it  constituted 
a  delicious  shiver — something  that  she  had  almost  for- 

289 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

gotten  as  a  relic  of  her  remote  past,  something  that  she 
had  never  expected  to  experience  again  in  the  presence 
of  any  man. 

She  would  have  looked  for  such  an  experience  in  the 
presence  of  Buckhannon  least  of  all.  She  had  thought 
quite  a  little  concerning  Buckhannon,  had  talked  not  a 
little  about  him  to  Melissine.  Mme.  Jenesco  had  never 
approved  of  Buckhannon :  Instinctively  she  had  felt  that 
this  boy — this  farmer — would  he  her  enemy.  And,  any 
way,  what  was  he  as  a  possible  husband  for  Melissine? 
Mme.  Jenesco  had  visioned  something  else  as  a  husband 
for  Melissine — possibly  a  rich  old  man  — some  one  who 
was  rich  at  any  rate  and  familiar  to  Broadway,  familiar 
to  Fifth  Avenue,  even. 

Why  not?  Didn't  every  girl  have  a  right  to  be  am 
bitious?  And  Mme.  Jenesco  herself  might  become  a  girl 
again,  with  a  foil  like  Melissine. 

But  here  and  now,  Mme.  Jenesco  had  felt  a  thrill  in 
the  very  center  of  her  being,  a  shiver,  a  yearning,  a 
panic.  All  at  once  she  was  aware  again  that  this  boy  was 
beautiful.  This  was  youth.  This  was  pure  young 
strength.  This  was  a  passion  of  love. 

Buckhannon  himself  must  have  felt  a  curious  reaction. 

This  was  not  Melissine  who  stood  in  front  of  him. 
It  was  Woman. 

He  hadn't  noticed  it  before,  how  beautiful  this 
woman  was.  For  the  matter  of  that  he  had  never  seen  her 
with  this  look  in  her  face,  not  even  that  time  she  told 
him  she  loved  him.  Nor  had  he  ever  seen  her  dressed  like 
this.  She  didn't  seem  to  be  wearing  much  else  than  some 

290 


The  Smell  of  Locusts 

sort  of  a  silk  dressing-gown — black,  lined  with  coral 
pink — something  that  left  her  very  lithe  and  supple  and 
soft.  Her  dark  red  hair  fell  heavily  about  her  ivory 
face.  This  gave  an  added  depth  to  her  eyes. 

"How  do  you  do?"  Buckhannon  stammered. 

Mme.  Jenesco  gave  him  a  mysterious  smile.  She 
put  out  her  left  hand — her  smooth  round  arm  bare  to 
above  the  elbow.  As  an  act  of  simple  politeness,  Buck 
hannon  would  have  shaken  hands  with  her.  Perhaps  that 
was  all  that  she  had  intended.  He  thought  that  it  was. 
But  her  hand  clung  to  his.  Her  hand  was  hot  and 
moist.  A  sort  of  electricity  came  from  it — a  dynamic 
force  that  made  Buckhannon's  heart  beat  faster.  Her 
perfume  reached  him — musty,  suggestive  of  sandalwood, 
suggestive  of  deep  tropic  forests. 

"How  do  you  do  ?"  she  murmured. 

"I  am  well.    I  hope " 

Her  smile  checked  him.  Her  smile  was  equivalent 
to  the  slight  magnetic  drag  of  her  hand. 

"Come  in  and  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said. 

And  she  was  leading  him  helpless,  but  unconscious  of 
his  helplessness — conscious  only  of  a  certain  trouble — 
his  delayed  meeting  with  Melissine,  his  physical  unrest 
in  the  presence  of  this  woman.  He  couldn't  be  brusk. 
He  couldn't  be  impolite.  She  gave  him  no  opportunity  to 
speak  until  they  were  in  the  shadowy  drawing-room. 

"How  is  Miss  Tyrone?"  Buckhannon  inquired. 

"Silly  boy!"  said  Mme.  Jenesco,  with  a  warm,  but 
rather  sad  little  laugh.  "How  impetuous  you  are! 
Haven't  you  time  for  a  single  word  with  any  of  the 

291 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

others  who  may  be  fond  of  you?"  She  led  him,  con 
fused,  to  a  sofa.  She  lessened  his  confusion  by  telling 
him  that  Melissine  would  doubtless  be  down  shortly.  She 
added  to  it  by  telling  him  that  she  wanted  to  talk  to 
him  about  Melissine. 

They  were  still  standing  there  at  the  side  of  the  sofa. 
Mme.  Jenesco  turned  and  confronted  Buckhannon  with 
her  face  very  close  to  his.  He  had  thought  that  she  was 
taller  that  she  was.  Her  face  was  as  if  directly  under  his 
own.  Her  two  vibrant  hands  were  on  his  arms.  He  was 
more  conscious  than  ever  of  her  animal  heat,  her  jungle 
perfume.  He  was  dazzled  by  her  eyes  and  her  mouth. 

All  this  while  his  whole  heart,  his  soul,  and  his  con 
science,  were  rioting  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  fidelity  for 
Melissine. 

"You're  both  so  very  young,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 

And  she  drew  him  down  to  a  place  at  her  side  on  the 
sofa. 


CHAPTER  L 

IN  THE  MOMENT  OF  NEED 

1  DON'T   quite   understand  you."   said   Buckhannon, 
lamely. 
"Life  has  so  many  wonderful  opportunities,"  said 
Mme.  Jenesco,  with  the  sure  instinct  that  she  was  utter 
ing  a  thought  to  which  Buckhannon  could  subscribe.  Her 
voice  was  warm  and  soothing.  Again  she  smiled  into 
his  face,  this  time  with  her  eyes  half  closed. 

"That's  right,"  said  Buckhannon. 

"No  boy  should  rush  into  marriage,"  said  Mme. 
Jenesco,  "until  he  knows  something  of  the  world.  And 
you're  such  a  boy — so  full  of  ideals — so  ready  to  trust 
every  one!" 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  demanded  Buckhannon, 
embarrassed. 

Mme.  Jenesco  didn't  answer  immediately.  She  kept 
her  eyes  on  his.  She  laughed  softly. 

"Why,  you're  nothing  but  a  child,"  she  teased  him. 
"You  have  been  thinking  about  marriage  when  you 
haven't  the  slightest  conception  even  of  the  most  funda 
mental  facts  of  marriage." 

Quite  abruptly  she  got  to  her  feet,  leaning  for  a 
lingering  moment  or  two  on  Buckhannon  as  she  did  so. 

293 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

She  murmured  something  about  making  sure  of  their 
privacy.  She  brushed  past  him  and  went  over  to  the 
door  leading  into  the  hall.  She  listened  there  an  instant. 
She  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  She  went  to  the  other 
door  at  the  back  of  the  room.  She  listened  there  an  in 
stant  also,  then  made  sure  that  this  was  closed  and 
fastened. 

Buckhannon  watched  her. 

He  was  well  enough  aware  of  some  impending  dan 
ger — a  sort  of  a  growl  in  his  breast,  such  as  a  hound 
might  feel  in  the  forest  at  night  when  it  scents  the  pre 
sence  of  a  strange  wild  taint  in  the  air.  And  yet  there 
was  a  fascination  about  this  as  well.  The  room  was 
shadowy.  The  room  was  very  silent.  The  room  was 
redolent  of  tropic  breaths  and  fragrances.  The  room 
itself  was  become  a  jungle. 

It  was  more  of  the  jungle  than  ever  as  Mme.  Jenesco 
turned  swiftly  from  the  second  door  and  came  back  to 
ward  Buckhannon  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  and  a 
smile  on  her  lips.  Her  hair  had  become  a  mane.  The 
robe  she  wore  had  slipped  from  one  of  her  shoulders.  It 
looked  as  if  it  would  have  fallen  altogether  if  she 
hadn't  clutched  it  about  her  waist.  There  was  a  sinuous 
grace  about  her.  There  was  a  sort  of  panting  eagerness. 

"Partridge  is  in  the  kitchen,"  she  announced  without 
other  explanation.  "You  won't  be  able  to  see  Melissine 
for  half  an  hour  yet,  anyway.  When  you  came  she  was 
just  preparing  to  take  her  bath." 

Mme.  Jenesco  leaned  over  Buckhannon,  presumably 
to  straighten  a  taper  in  one  of  the  wall  brackets.  She 

294 


In  the  Moment  of  Need 

couldn't  quite  reach  it.  She  had  to  kneel  on  the  sofa, 
again  lean  on  Buckhannon  for  support.  She  slid  down 
beside  him,  one  of  her  legs  doubled  up  beneath  her,  the 
black  silk  gown  in  disarray,  the  pink  lining  of  it  falling 
away  from  the  clear  and  solid  whiteness  of  her  throat 
and  shoulders.  Her  hands  were  on  him. 

"There  is  so  much  I've  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  whis 
pered,  and  she  wasn't  smiling  any  more.  "There  is  so 
much  that  I  could  save  you  from.  I  know  that  no 
thought  of  evil  would  ever  come  into  your  dear  head. 
You're  so  innocent!" 

"What  did  you  want  to  tell  me?"  asked  Buckhannon. 

"Oh,  why  should  you  have  come  back  to  this  old  house 
of  the  bad  name!"  she  exclaimed  by  way  of  answer. 
"You  deserve  something  better.  It  can  only  mean  suffer 
ing  for  you.  It  has  meant  so  much  suffering  to  me! 
I've  thought  so  much  about  you  since  that  other  talk  we 
had.  I  feel  that  I  hadn't  ought  to  have  said  anything  to 
you  about  it.  But  I  had  to.  I  couldn't  let  you  throw 
yourself  away.  And  I've  had  no  one — no  man — I  could 
talk  to  since  my  husband  left  me " 

"I'm  sorry " 

"No,  be  glad !  He  was  a  dirty  little  mutt !  If  I  could 
think  of  any  way  I  could  pay  him  back !"  She  brought 
one  of  Buckhannon's  hands  to  her  bare  breast  and  held 
it  there.  "See?  My  heart  doesn't  beat.  He  broke  it. 
So  I've  brought  it  here  where  my  mother  lived — with  her 
broken  heart." 

"Your  mother?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

295 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

'Know  what?" 
"That  Mr.  Tyrone  kept  my  mother  here- 


She  broke  off.  She  took  Buckhannon's  other  hand 
and  brought  that  one  also  to  her  breast. 

"I — didn't  know "  Buckhannon  faltered. 

"Ah,  poor  boy,  it's  an  outrage  for  them  to  try  and 
make  a  sucker  of  you !  But  there !"  cried  Mme.  Jenesco, 
in  consternation.  "Perhaps  I  hadn't  ought  to  have  men 
tioned  it.  I  ought  to  have  guessed " 

"Guessed  what?" 

"Nothing ;  but  you  were  so  fine,  so  trusting !" 

She  held  his  two  hands  where  they  were  with  one 
of  hers.  She  coiled  her  free  hand  about  his  face  and 
neck.  Inexplicably  her  bare  arm  had  slipped  about  his 
head  and  she  had  drawn  his  head  forward.  She  kissed 
him. 

Buckhannon  hated  himself.  There  was  death  in  his 
heart.  Half  of  his  heart  was  dead.  But  the  other  half 
was  riotous,  hot.  It  was  that  way  through  the  whole  of 
his  being.  One  part  of  him  was  dead.  One  part  of  him 
was  surging. 

There  was  even  time  for  a  leisurely  survey  of  this 
situation.  In  the  Metropolitan  Museum  he  had  often 
paused  to  look  at  a  piece  of  statuary  there,  although  it 
had  always  struck  him  as  crude  and  ugly — the  effigy  of 
two  naked  figures  engaged  in  a  death  struggle  and  in 
tended  to  represent  man's  higher  self  fighting  against  his 
lower.  In  the  statue  it  was  the  better  self  that  rose 
triumphant.  Here  and  now  with  himself  the  contrary 
was  true. 

296 


In  the  Moment  of  Need 

But  even  while  he  recognized  this  truth,  and  recog 
nized  that  the  truth  was  damnation,  he  couldn't  lift  a 
finger  to  intervene.  His  will — his  higher,  civilized  will — 
was  in  abeyance,  utterly. 

What  was  the  higher  will,  anyway,  compared  with  that 
other — the  older,  the  primordial  will,  the  will  of  Adam — 
this  force  that  had  turned  the  first  protoplasmic  cell  into 
the  squirming  life  of  the  planet — that  had  developed 
gnats  and  elephants — that  had  kept  the  generations  of 
women  and  men  unbroken  in  the  world  in  spite  of  wars, 
famines,  plagues,  slavery,  griefs,  disillusionments  ? 

So  he  argued  with  himself  even  while  he  was  telling 
himself  that  he  was  base,  foul,  unspeakable,  that  hence 
forward  he  should  know  Melissine  no  more. 

Yet,  curiously  enough,  he  was  the  victim  of  another 
obsession.  He  was  afraid  that  Mme.  Jenesco  would 
think  that  he  lacked  appreciation,  that  he  wasn't  grate 
ful  for  the  really  enormous  favor  that  she  was  conferring 
upon  him. 

He  was  haunted  by  the  phrase :  "All  that  a  woman  has 
to  give!" 

And  what  if  he  should  spurn  this  offering  of  hers! 
Then  he  would  be  a  cad !  The  worst  of  it  was  that  even 
here  his  conscience  was  bothering  him — accusing  him  of 
this  ingratitude!  He  denied  the  accusation  aloud. 

"I  want  you  to  know  how  wonderful  I  think  you  are," 
he  said.  "I  want  you  to  know  how  grateful  I  am !" 

This  when  his  heart  was  breaking — a  part  of  his  heart. 
No ;  that  part  of  his  heart  was  already  dead.  Melissine 
was  dead.  That  part  of  him  that  had  ever  loved  Melis- 

297 


The  HoU'Se  With  a  Bad  Name 

sine  was  dead.  Would  it  be  the  right  thing  now  for  him 
to  marry  Mme.  Jenesco?  Could  he  do  anything  less? 

Mme.  Jenesco  had  pressed  his  head  to  her  bosom. 
Her  fingers  were  playing  in  his  hair. 

Then,  in  a  moment  of  silence,  he  heard  the  sound  of 
a  harp.  It  was  Melissine,  in  the  adjoining  room,  unsus 
picious  of  his  presence,  and  she  was  playing  an  air  that 
had  become  very  dear  to  him.  The  "Indian  Serenade" — 

t 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee! 

He  managed  to  get  to  his  feet.  Without  a  word  he 
went  out  into  the  hall.  There  he  stood  dizzily  for  a 
space.  He  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  LI 

MR.  TANTALUS 

HE  was  still  dizzy  when  he  reached  the  sidewalk. 
If  such  a  thing  were  possible,  he  was  feeling  as 
a  man  might  feel  after  having  his  head  cut  off. 
Figuratively  speaking,  he  was  like  that.  All  that  was  best 
of  him  had  been  severed.  The  proud  head  was  gone — 
that  part  of  the  human  anatomy  upon  which  so  many  mil 
lions  of  years  had  been  devoted  in  the  slow  work  of 
evolution.  Nothing  was  left  but  his  body — the  part  of 
him  that  was  vile. 

He  would  have  walked  away  altogether,  but  he  felt 
incapable  of  even  a  prolonged  physical  life.  Besides, 
what  was  left  to  him  of  an  intelligence — that  part  of  his 
intelligence  that  resided  like  that  of  an  alligator  in  his 
backbone — warned  him  that  he  was  a  spectacle.  Even 
the  street-sweepers  would  see  how  vile  he  was. 

He  had  a  touch  of  derisive  humor.  The  street- 
sweepers  would  want  to  sweep  him  up  and  carry  him 
off  in  their  dust-bins. 

The  peace  and  the  melancholy,  and  also  the  unworld- 
liness  of  the  old  churchyard  called  to  him.  It  had  been 
a  place  of  inspirations  before — a  place  of  cleanliness, 
fragrance,  fresh  young  hope  in  spite  of  all  those  good 

299 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

old  folks  a  moldering  in  their  graves.  He  wished  that 
he  was  in  his  grave.  He  went  around  by  the  familiar 
gate  at  the  side  of  the  abandoned  chapel.  He  went  into 
the  depths  of  the  yard  where  the  lilac  and  the  syringa 
bushes  would  shield  him  from  the  idle  curiosity  of  the 
street.  When  there  he  ventured  yet  closer  to  No.  6 — 
so  close  that  he  could  hear  Melissine  still  busy  with  her 
harp.  He  could  hear  her  sing. 

He  was  Tantalus.  Here  he  was  dying  of  thirst.  There 
were  the  life-saving  waters  up  to  his  chin  yet  out  of 
reach — yet  out  of  reach!  He  dropped  down  to  one  of 
the  moss  grown  old  stone  benches  of  the  place.  He 
dropped  his  head  into  his  hands. 

He  didn't  notice  it  when  the  elderly  Mr.  Partridge, 
very  clean  and  proper,  but  with  a  long  blue  apron  pro 
tecting  most  of  his  clothes,  came  from  the  back  garden 
of  No.  6  and  into  the  churchyard.  Also  Partridge  wore  a 
pair  of  heavy  old  gloves.  He  carried  a  trowel  and  a 
sickle.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  it  was  also  part  of 
Partridge's  work — a  duty  purely  self-imposed — to  keep 
this  graveyard  looking  neat.  He  was  still  butler,  so  to 
speak,  to  some  of  the  earlier  Tyrones  who  had  been 
buried  here. 

And  Partridge  had  already  uprooted  a  number  of 
weeds,  had  already  cut  quite  a  little  grass — communing 
with  himself  betimes,  as  old  folks  will  when  thus  en 
gaged,  on  the  sweetness  of  sleeping  in  the  good 
brown  earth  with  a  tidy  bit  of  lawn  for  coverlet,  old 
trees  standing  guard,  the  gentle  sky  overhead  with  its 

300 


Mr.  Tantalum 

perpetual  promise  of  an  everlasting  heaven — when  he  be 
came  aware  of  that  pensive  figure  on  the  stone  bench. 

The  stranger  was  exceedingly  pensive,  as  Partridge 
could  see — bowed  low,  as  if  crushed  down  by  the  burden 
on  his  shoulders ;  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  as  if  he 
wished  never  again  to  confront  the  light  of  day.  Par 
tridge's  sympathy  was  moved.  He  knew,  however,  that 
at  times  like  this  there  was  no  better  cure  than  silence 
and  solitude — no  better  cure  except  one.  But  Partridge 
kept  looking  in  the  stranger's  direction,  perhaps  struck  by 
the  thought  that  there  was  something  familiar  about  him. 
Then  Partridge  made  out  who  it  was. 

"Mr.  Buckhannon !"  he  muttered. 

What  ailed  him?  Why  did  he  sit  here  like  this  while 
Melissine  awaited  him?  What  was  wrong?  Partridge 
did  not  know,  but  he  suspected,  as  a  mother  might  have 
done,  how  much  these  two  young  people  loved  each 
other. 

Partridge  sought  council  from  the  grass,  from  the 
trees,  from  the  sky,  even  from  the  dead  Tyrones.  He 
turned  and  hurried  back  into  the  house. 

"Eugene!" 

"Melissine !" 

Buckhannon  had  lifted  his  head  to  find  Melissine  there. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

She  had  remained  hesitant  a  dozen  paces  from  him, 
fear  and  sympathy,  love  and  doubt,  joy  and  pain  all 
rippling  on  the  surface  of  her. 

"Oh,  Melissine!"  was  all  he  could  say. 
301 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

He  got  to  his  feet.  There  was  an  added  eloquence 
in  his  dark  eyes,  the  way  he  put  his  hand  to  her  in  ap 
peal. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  so,"  she  said.  And  this  fact 
was  momentarily  larger  than  any  other.  Just  for  the 
moment  it  was.  It  brought  her  closer  to  him,  ready  to  be 
taken  into  his  arms. 

More  than  ever  was  Buckhannon  the  Tantalus. 

So  he  had  dreamed  of  taking  her  into  his  arms  as  a 
man  dying  of  thirst  might  have  dreamed  of  plunging  his 
face  into  the  waters  of  a  pure  and  sparkling  spring. 

"You  are  my  life !  You  are  my  hope  of  heaven !"  he 
said. 

How  could  he  ever  tell  her  about  that  scene  through 
which  he  had  just  now  passed  with  Mme.  Jenesco?  Why 
should  be  tell  her?  It  would  only  cause  her  pain.  And 
yet,  how  could  he  lie  to  her  to  the  extent  of  acting  as 
it  nothing  had  happened — as  if  he  were  clean — as  if  he 
were  fit? 

Melissine  was  sparkling  clean  and  pure — a  very  well- 
spring  of  cleansing  and  life-giving  spirit  sure  enough. 
With  a  contrite  heart,  a  prayer  for  forgiveness,  Buckhan 
non  proclaimed  the  truth  to  himself  as  he  tenderly  em 
braced  her. 

They  were  hidden  from  the  street.  They  were  hidden 
from  the  houses  back  of  the  churchyard.  So  they  were 
all  alone.  They  were  hidden  even  from  the  tombstones — 
not  that  these  mattered  very  much;  for  these  were  like 
bent  old  men  and  women,  blind  and  deaf,  who  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  this  world  of  the  young  any  more.  And 

302 


Mr.  Tantalus 

the  locust-trees  shed  down  their  special  perfume  like 
a  benediction. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  gasped  Buckhannon  at  last. 

As  if  every  look  and  gesture  of  Melissine  hadn't 
answered  the  question  a  thousand  times ! 

"You  know— I  do." 

"Say  it!" 

"I  do" 

"Say:  Eugene,  I  love  you!" 

This  was  a  ritual.  She  made  the  response  in  a  sacred 
whisper :  "Eugene,  I  love  you." 

She  turned  her  head  away.  Her  lips  were  parted,  smil 
ing.  Her  eyes  were  moist.  He  had  taken  her  hand. 

"Oh,  tell  me,"  he  urged,  "that  you  love  me  so  much 
that  you  are  ready  to  make  this  wonderful  sacrifice  on 
my  account." 

This  brought  her  face  around,  startled. 

"I'd  die  for  you.  You  know  I  would."  She  panted 
it.  And  she  saw  such  a  look  of  humility  and  quivering 
suspense  in  his  face  that  she  was  frightened.  She  drew 
him  down  to  the  old  stone  bench.  They  sat  there  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes.  "Why — why  do  you  look  like 
that?"  she  asked. 

"It's  because,"  he  began,  "I  don't  feel  that  I  have 
any  right  to  marry  you,"  he  stumbled  on.  "I'm  not 
worthy." 

"Wait,"  Melissine  said. 

"Why  should  I  wait?  Ever  since  that  day  in  Notre 
Dame " 

303 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Buckhannon  had  broken  off  in  response  to  something 
that  he  in  turn  had  seen  in  Melissine's  face. 

"Wait !  Wait !"  she  said  again.  "There  is  so  much  that 
I  shall  have  to  tell  you.  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you — but 
I  couldn't  tell  you  before." 

"Nothing  that  you  could  tell  me  would  ever  make  any 
difference,"  he  said. 

"But  it  would." 

"No.  Listen!  I  was  going  to  beg  of  you  to  marry 
me — to  marry  me  now — now — to  save  my  .life  and  to 
save  my  soul — even  if  I  am  the  vilest  person  in  the 
world.  But  I  haven't  wanted  to  be  vile.  I've  wanted  to 
be  everything  that  you  inspired  me  to  be — ever  since  that 
I  first  looked  at  you  from  across  the  street — don't  you 
remember — me  standing  in  front  of  the  drug-store " 

"Ah,  yes!     I  remember!" 

" — but  most  of  all,  what  I  have  aspired  to  be  since  that 
day  you  and  I  were  together  in  Notre  Dame.  You  don't 
know  what  that  day  did  for  me.  That  has  become  my 
new  birthday,  Melissine.  I  wasn't  alive  before  that  day. 
I  had  merely  dreamed  of  life — like  one  of  the  Maeter 
linck's  babies  in  the  'Blue  Bird.'  Don't  you  remember?" 

"I've  never  seen  it." 

"But  you  will — with  me!  We'll  go  and  see  every 
thing." 

"But  we  can't !  We  can't !"  cried  Melissine.  "I  can't 
marry  you.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  can't.  There  is 
something  I  can't  understand — a  whole  cloud  of  things  I 
can't  understand.  Mysteries!  Dreadful,  dark  mys 
teries  P 

304 


Mr.  Tantalus 

It  would  never  be  an  easy  thing  for  Melissine  to  weep. 
She  was  not  that  kind — too  deep,  too  clear,  too  much 
with  a  heavenly  poise  about  her  as  well  as  her  own  modi 
cum  of  that  stern  old  Tyrone  pride.  But  Melissine  wept 
now. 


CHAPTER  LIT 

THE  ONE  GREATEST  THING 
i  , 

I'LL  go  into  the  house  and  I'll  clear  all  this  up  for 
you,"  said  Buckhannon. 
Melissine  had  told  him  all  she  knew.  What  was  the 
mystery  of  this  old  house?  Why  did  it  have  a  bad  name? 
Who  was  Mme.  Jenesco,  anyway?  What  was  all  this 
about  Melissine's  father  and  Mme.  Jenesco's  mother? 
Why  should  Partridge  have  said  that  he  was  a  thief  when 
anybody  would  know  that  he  wasn't  a  thief?  Why 
should  he  have  claimed  that  he  was  Mme.  Jenesco's 
father  when  anybody  could  be  equally  certain  that  he 
was  not? 

"I'll  go  into  the  house  and  clear  all  this  up  for  you." 
A  pretty  big  order;  but  Buckhannon  felt  equal  to  it. 
Didn't  he,  though!  Good  Lord,  had  there  only  been  a 
dragon  to  fight — something  like  that!  So  he  would 
right  himself  with  his  conscience.  So  he  could  purify 
himself.  No,  it  wasn't  on  his  own  account  at  all.  He 
was  going  to  do  this  for  Melissine.  If,  afterward,  when 
he  had  made  his  own  confession,  she  should  still  deign 
to  consider  him —  No!  He  wouldn't  think  of  that  part 
of  it  at  all. 

Not  that  Melissine's  own  confession  of  bafflement  and 

306 


The  One  Greatest  Thing 

possible  unworthiness  had  been  put  quite  so  clearly  as  the 
above  questions  may  have  implied.  Half  she  said. 
Half  she  didn't  say.  Buckhannon's  own  riotious  and  re 
bellious  thought  supplied  whatever  was  missing. 

He  felt  the  necessity  for  something  that  he  could  fight. 
That  was  all.  And  the  main  object  of  his  antagonism 
was  a  very  dragon  indeed — to  his  inflamed  imagination: 

"And  the  woman  was  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet 
color  .  .  .  And  upon  her  forehead  was  a  name  written: 
Mystery,  Babylon  the  Great,  the  Mother  of  Harlots  and 
Abominations  of  the  Earth !" 

If  the  truth  be  told,  Mme.  Jenesco  would  have  sug 
gested  this  description  at  this  very  moment.  To  the  eye 
of  the  imagination  she  would  have  had  there  been  any  one 
there  other  than  herself  to  behold. 

She  had  greatly  enjoyed  that  interview  of  hers  with 
Buckhannon,  even  if  it  had  not  -lasted  so  long  as  she 
might  have  desired.  She  was  content.  She  was  filled 
with  memories — memories  remote  and  memories  recent. 
Some  of  these  memories  were  running  away  back  to  her 
earliest  dreams  of  love.  She  had  been  romantic  then. 
She  had  then  believed  that  love  was  a  wonderful  thing. 
Then  she  had  known  nothing  of  the  deceptions  of  it,  the 
brutal  reactions  of  it,  the  limits.  Limits  which  had  been 
well  defined ;  for  Mme.  Jenesco — although  nothing  at  all 
of  a  philosopher  in  a  theoretical  sense — had  always  been 
a  materialist.  Nothing  spiritual  about  her  at  all — not  so 
far  as  she  would  ever  confess.  When  you  are  dead,  you 

307 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

are  dead.  "Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow 
you  die." 

Nor  was  she  any  more  spiritual  at  this  present  mo 
ment  than  she  had  ever  been.  Quite  the  contrary.  Never 
theless,  she  was  thinking  once  more  how  beautiful  love 
was,  how  sweet  it  was,  how  different  and  better  it  was 
compared  to  the  other  pleasures,  so  called,  in  this  world 
of  bitterness  and  disillusion. 

She  had  prowled  about  a  little  after  Buckhannon  had 
left  her.  She  had  recoiled  her  hair,  luxuriously,  in  front 
of  a  wall-mirror.  She  had  perfumed  her  hands  and  her 
breast.  But  she  had  remained  dressed  as  she  was.  She 
had  returned  to  the  place  where  Buckhannon  had  left 
her.  The  sofa  was  luxurious.  She  made  it  more  so 
with  additional  cushions.  She  loved  luxury — loved  it 
as  a  spider,  or  a  snake,  or  a  panther  in  the  jungle  loves 
luxury — with  a  complete  abandonment  to  self  and  the 
interests  of  self. 

She  coiled  up  amid  her  cushions.  The  room  was 
shadowy.  The  air  of  it  tepid — as  if  warmed  of  her  own 
warmth;  fragrant — as  if  perfumed  of  her  own  faunal 
fragrance. 

And  Buckhannon  would  return.  He  was  nothing  but 
a  child — nothing  but  a  boy — so  crude,  so  impulsive,  so 
unable  to  take  care  of  himself — but  such  a  lover !  Love 
with  him  would  be  very  sweet.  There  would  be  some 
thing  about  it  to  make  up  for  all  the  pleasure  that  had 
been  hers  in  the  pleasure  she  had  sought. 

She  was  lying  there  half  dreaming  in  her  sultry 
patience — visioning  jungle  vistas,  thinking  jungle 

308 


The  One  Greatest  Thmg 

thoughts — when  she  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  a 
voice.  Buckhannon's  voice!  Had  he  returned  so  soon? 
She  listened.  Then  a  glint  of  rage,  as  keen  and  deadly  as 
a  red-hot  needle,  penetrated  her  heart  as  she  caught  the 
vibrations  of  another  voice  and  became  aware  that  Buck- 
hannon  was  in  the  company  of  Melissine.  The  rage  went 
out.  It  had  been  a  mere  glint.  But  it  had  left  its  pain. 
She  would  get  even  with  Melissine  for  this.  Even  so,  it 
was  the  Jenesco's  interest  in  Buckhannon  that  over 
whelmed  her,  even  now. 

She  had  that  passionate  interest  in  him.  She  savored 
him  with  whatever  she  had  of  imagination.  So  sure  she 
was  of  what  the  future  held  that  she  could  even  take  a 
species  of  yearning,  premeditated  joy  in  seeing  him  now 
with  this  other  woman. 

Hardly  a  woman,  at  that!  What  did  Melissine  know 
about  men ! 

It  would  be  amusing  to  watch  them.  They  hadn't  seen 
her  lying  there  amid  her  cushions — in  the  depths  of  the 
room — where  the  shadows  were  deep.  It  was  lighter 
where  they  stood.  And  Buckhannon's  interest  was  so 
concentrated  on  Meslissine;  Melissine' s  interest  so  con 
centrated  on  him!  They  had  come  into  the  drawing- 
room  from  the  nail — had  paused  there  as  if  for  a  final 
consultation. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  Buckhannon,  "I  tell 
you  that  you  are  the  only  fact  in  the  universe  that  counts. 
,You  are  a  fact."  He  caught  his  breath  a  little.  He  con 
fronted  her.  He  caught  her  hands  in  his.  He  spoke  as 
a  man  speaks  when  it  is  the  heart  that  speaks — what 

309 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Emerson  would  have  called  the  Over  Soul.  "You  are  a 
fact." 

It  was  evident  that  Melissine  did  not  grasp  his  mean 
ing.  For  that  matter,  it  was  evident  that  Buckhannon 
himself  was  groping  for  some  meaning  which  as  yet 
eluded  him,  a  meaning  too  great  for  his  powers  of  ex 
pression.  Melissine  smiled  up  at  him  shyly.  There  was 
a  sparkling  moment  when  she  held  her  breath. 

"If  God  had  never  made  anything  else  but  you/'  he 
said,  "it  would  have  been  enough.  He  would  have  been 
.God — would  have  been  the  Creator." 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,"  said  Melissine,  touched  with 
awe. 

"I  do  say  it,"  Buckhannon  returned,  all  devotion — de 
votion  for  Melissine  and  the  subject  of  his  discourse. 
"God  put  you  in  the  world  so  that  we  shouldn't  forget — 
so  that  we  shouldn't  think  that  everything  was  wrong — 

bad "  He  broke  off.  His  declaration  became  more 

personal.  "Oh,  Melissine!  I  was  like  that.  I  am  like 
that  still.  But  when  I  am  here  in  your  presence,  I  want 
to  take  all  that  is  vile  in  me — crucify  it 

There  were  tears  in  his  voice,  but  his  voice,  while  soft, 
was  passionate  and  clear.  His  eyes  were  brilliant.  They 
burned.  They  burned  with  a  quality  that  took  the  color 
from  Melissine's  face,  gave  her  a  sort  of  unearthly 
quality  that  justified  the  nature  of  his  tribute.  She  fal 
tered  a  struggling  sentence: 

"All  that  you  say  I  am  to  you,  you  are  to  me!" 

There  was  no  discordance  in  Buckhannon's  action  as 
310 


The  One  Greatest  Thing 

he  slid  down  to  one  knee — this  was  all  devotional  and 
apostolic — and  hid  his  face  against  her  dress  and  hand. 
He  was  the  sinner  demanding  pardon. 
On  Melissine's  face  was  a  mystical  light. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THE  WHITE  HUNTSMAN 

MME.  JENESCO  lay  perfectly  still.  One  would 
have  said  that  even  her  thought  lay  still.  No 
formula  of  words  came  into  her  mind  at  all. 
Even  her  passions  were  in  abeyance.  They  say  that  cer 
tain  wild  creatures  of  the  forest  contain  themselves  like 
that  in  the  presence  of  the  Unknown.  There  are  even 
those  who  say  that  these  brute  things  have  the  power  of 
seeing  ambassadors  from  the  Unknown  invisible  to  men 
— that  most  animals  see  ghosts  and  gods.  Mme.  Jenesco 
was  like  that  now — although  she  may  not  have  known  it 
herself. 

The  chances  were  that  she  was  not  thinking  of  her 
self.  Sentient,  warmed,  coiled,  furred,  and  as  capable  of 
swift  physical  brutalities  as  any  animal,  she  lay  there 
fascinated  as  might  have  been  a  coiled  black  tiger  on  the 
edge  of  a  moonlit  glade  where  a  pair  of  strange  white 
birds  were  mating. 

It  was  only  by  degrees  that  her  own  sense  of  the  situa 
tion  developed  into  something  else. 

It  was  only  by  degrees  that  she  could  get  the  nature 
and  the  purpose  of  what  Buckhannon  was  trying  to  ex 
press.  For  this  also  was  weird  to  the  dominant  strain  in 
Mme.  Jenesco's  make-up. 

312 


The  White  Huntsman 

Love!  She  thought  that  she  had  known  all  about  love. 
What  she  had  taken  to  be  love  had  been  the  chief 
occupation  of  her  life.  She  had  heard  all  sorts  of  men — 
and  women,  too — talk  about  it.  She  had  watched  their 
reactions  when  they  were  dominated  by  it.  She  had 
always  known  that  it  was  complex — that  some  it  rendered 
mean,  some  it  rendered  generous!1  some  mild,  some 
murderous. 

But  she  had  never  suspected  anything  like  this.  She 
had  never  heard  anything  like  this. 

"You  are  so  small  and  so  frail,"  said  Buckhannon; 
"but  you  are  the  one  indestructible  thing.  You  are 
greater  than  kings  or  armies.  You  are  beauty.  You 
are  perfection.  The  Lord  of  Hosts  knew  what  he  was 
doing  when  He  made  you  the  keeper  of  life.  You  are 
the  vestal — the  keeper  of  the  flame." 

Melissine  laughed  softly  for  sheer  happiness.  She 
said: 

"If  all  men  were  so  noble!" 

"They  would  be  if  all  women  were  like  you." 

"I  am  no  better  than  any  one  else." 

"You  are  not  only  the  keeper  of  the  flame,"  said 
Buckhannon,  pursuing  his  thought,  "you  are  the  temple 
itself.  You  are  the  Holy  of  Holies." 

He  was  still  on  one  knee.  But  he  was  no  longer  hiding 
his  face.  His  arms  rested  lightly  around  Melissine's 
waist.  He  was  looking  up  at  her.  His  eyes  glowed.  She 
was  yielding  to  his  embrace.  She  was  smiling  down  at 
him.  One  of  her  hands  was  on  his  shoulder.  With  the 
other  she  lightly  brushed  his  temple,  his  head.  , 

313 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"I  have  dreamed  of  becoming  such  a  wonderful  archi 
tect,"  he  said. 

"You  will  become  one  of  the  greatest — you  will  become 
the  greatest  architect  in  the  world,"  said  Melissine. 

"But  even  if  I  become  the  greatest  architect  in  the 
world,"  he  perused  with  reverent  contemplation,  "I  shall 
still  be  crude.  What  is  the  work  of  any  architect  com 
pared  to  you?  Where  is  there  a  foundation  so  miracu 
lous  as  your  feet — or  a  tower  of  a  million  rooms  that  can 
sway  to  music  like  your  body,  and  crowned  with  a  capital 
like  your  head?" 

He  collected  his  thought — while  Melissine  smiled, 
while  Mme.  Jenesco,  unseen,  groveled,  so  to  speak,  in  her 
lair.  He  went  on : 

"When  I  look  at  you  I  see  the  Taj  Mahal.  I  see 
it  white,  reflected  in  the  lake,  between  the  cypress-trees. 
I  see  it  blue  in  the  moonlight.  I  see  it  pink  in  the  dawn. 
They  were  trying  for  a  perfection  like  yours  when  they 
laid  out  the  Halls  of  Karnak,  when  they  built  the  palace 
of  Sennacherib,  when  they  planted  the  hanging  gardens 
of  Babylon." 

The  words  brought  recurrent  stabs  to  Mme.  Jenesco  ly 
ing  there.  To  her  no  man  had  ever  talked  like  this.  At 
times  she  couldn't  see  very  distinctly,  and  it  was  as  if  her 
sight  was  beclouded  with  a  sort  of  bloody  mist.  At  times 
she  no  longer  heard  what  Buckhannon  was  saying.  This 
was  when  a  whispering  roar  deafened  her  to  all  else — 
then  when  she  was  hearing  again  the  things  that  men  had 
said  to  her — when  she  held  them  in  leash — when  they 


The  WMte  Huntsman 

knelt  at  her  feet — when  they  put  their  passion  in  words 
—words  to  make  the  very  soul  of  her  to  blush. 

"You  are  the  perfect  idea,"  said  Buckhannon  with  re 
pressed  fire;  "the  idea  that  the  Greeks  worshiped  when 
they  reared  their  temples  on  the  Acropolis." 

"I  want  to  be,"  said  Melissine. 

"When  they  built  St.  Mark's  in  Venice  they  went  every 
where  looking  for  beautiful  things  with  which  to  decorate 
it.  God  Himself  did  the  same  for  you !" 

"You're  so  wonderful,"  said  Melissine. 

"He  experimented  with  flowers  and  waterfalls,  dawns, 
and  sunsets,"  said  Buckhannon.  "He  made  a  billion, 
billion  lilies  and  roses,  then  fairies  and  saints.  Then — 
you,  O  my  Melissine!" 

"If  I  were  only  worthy  of  such  love,"  breathed 
Melissine. 

Her  words  were  a  mere  faint  echo  of  the  wonder  in 
her  eyes,  her  heightened  color,  her  parted  lips.  She 
seemed  to  be  yielding  more  and  more  to  the  magnetic 
coil  of  the  arms  that  held  her.  Her  body  curved  like  the 
stem  of  one  of  those  lilies  Buckhannon  had  mentioned. 

"I  love  you,"  whispered  Buckhannon." 

"And  I  love  you —  I  love  you  so !" 

Melissine  was  curving  lower. 

For  some  time  now  a  certain  chill  had  been  creeping 
«.p  about  Mme.  Jenesco — there,  where  she  lay  and 
watched  this  scene.  A  certain  fear  had  begun  to  play 
about  her  like  an  impish  light,  cool  and  uncanny.  She 
had  tried  to  twitch  the  feeling  away.  She  had  tried  to 

315 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

call  her  familiar  resources  to  her  aid.  This  was  a  comedy 
she  was  looking  at.  She  ought  to  laugh.  But  she  did 
not  laugh.  The  actors  were  amateurs.  She  ought  to 
hiss  and  boo.  But  she  did  not  hiss  or  boo.  Instead, 
something  like  a  sob  came  up  from  her  breast.  She 
called  this  rage,  and  knew  that  it  was  not. 

It  was  grief — a  poignant  grief.  That  was  what  it  was. 
But  a  grief  for  what? 

And  while  she  was  still  trying  to  get  this  curious 
question  adjusted  in  her  brain,  she  felt  a  stab  of  pain, 
and  the  pain  brought  fear. 

She  was  still  the  jungle  beast.  She  was  still  the  black 
panther.  To  some  extent  she  was.  But  she  was  no 
longer  lying  in  ambush,  slumbrous,  luxurious,  with  her 
lust  for  fresh  blood.  She  felt  that  she  was  trapped. 
She  wanted  to  get  away  from  where  she  was  but  she 
could  not.  Here  she  was  being  thrust  at.  She  was  being 
killed  by  inches. 

She  was  not  only  trapped. 

But  right  over  there  back  of  this  boy  and  this  girl — 
back  of  this  jungle  pair  of  sacred  white  birds  she  had 
watched  at  their  mating — it  was  as  if  a  great  white  hunts 
man  had  appeared;  it  was  as  if  this  huntsman  were 
armed  with  bow  and  arrows.  He  was  shooting  her  with 
his  arrows.  Each  arrow  was  barbed. 

"You  thought  you  knew  men!" 

"You  thought  you  knew  love!" 

"You  thought  you  knew  beauty!" 

"You  thought  to  defile  what  was  pure!" 

But  she  didn't  move  until  Buckhannon  and  Melissine 
316 


The  White  Huntsman 

were  gone — not  until  what  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  after 
they  were  gone.  Then  she  sat  up,  somehow  aware  that 
her  hurts  were  no  mere  matter  of  a  passing  fancy.  She 
felt  feverish.  She  felt  disfigured  and  scarred. 

Just  what  had  happened  to  her?    She  didn't  know. 

She  only  knew  that  these  cushions  that  had  been  so  soft 
and  tepid  a  little  while  ago  were  now  become  as  hot 
cinders  to  her  touch.  The  silk  of  her  robe  clawed  at 
her  skin  like  camel's  hair.  The  perfume  had  become  a 
stench. 

She  had  difficulty  with  her  breathing. 

"God!  God!"  she  gasped. 

And  she  snatched  at  her  robe  with  fingers  like  talons. 
She  snatched  it  apart.  This  at  least  was  an  element  of 
the  self-expression  she  sought.  She  hated  herself.  She 
hated  everything  about  herself.  She  clutched  the  silken 
stuff  again.  She  wrenched  it.  She  ripped  it.  She  tore 
it. 

As  she  started  to  her  feet  obedient  to  this  same  need  of 
violence,  she  caught  a  reflection  of  herself  in  the  mirror 
across  the  room.  She  had  thought  that  she  was  beauti 
ful.  She  had  thought  that  she  had  made  herself  beautiful. 

"Oh !  Oh !" 

Even  her  voice  was  ugly. 

She  beat  at  her  face  with  her  fists.  She  tore  at  her  hair 
as  she  had  torn  at  her  dress.  She  called  herself  vile 
names.  She  was  possessed  with  a  frenzy  of  self-de 
struction.  And  all  the  time  there  were  running  in  her 
brain  the  lava-streams  of  thought  incident  to  this  erup- 

317 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

tion.    They  were  as  logical,  these  thoughts  of  hers,  as  all 
primal  things  in  nature. 

She  had  sought  love.  She  had  sought  beauty.  It  was 
these  things  that  she  had  depended  on  that  had  betrayed 
her.  She  had  betrayed  herself.  Sometime,  somewhere, 
she  had  heard  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  that  this  was  the  one  un 
pardonable  sin.  And  this  she  had  never  understood. 
But  now  she  understood.  This  sin,  she  had  committed  it. 

"God!  God!"  she  cried  again. 

But  this  time  her  accent  was  different. 

She  had  hurled  herself  at  last  to  the  floor  half  re 
cumbent  against  the  sofa,  still  hurt  and  unappeased.  But 
the  paroxysm  had  passed.  She  was  mute  and  still,  even 
to  the  heart  of  her. 

There  Partridge  found  her. 

Partridge  had  come  into  the  room  silently.  He  had 
been  looking  for  her.  Here  she  was.  But  Partridge 
looked  and  looked  before  he  gave  any  sign  of  his  pres 
ence.  Even  then  he  approached  so  softly  that  he  was 
standing  just  over  her  before  he  spoke. 

There  may  have  occurred  many  thoughts  to  Partridge. 
It  may  have  occurred  to  him  that  here  was  the  daughter 
of  that  girl  that  Nathan  Tyrone  had  found  crushed  and 
desperate  one  night  more  than  thirty  years  ago.  It 
may  have  occurred  to  him  that  this  present  girl  was  not 
to  blame — oh,  not  to  blame  for  anything !  No  one  was  to 
blame  for  anything,  perhaps,  if  all  the  facts  were  only 
to  be  known.  Of  course,  there  were  things  that  people 


The  White  Huntsman 

didn't  like — things  that  people  should  try  to  correct.  But 
surely  there  was  no  place  in  the  world  for  blame. 

Judge  not !  Judge  not !  Sympathy  and  knowledge  were 
better. 

"There,  there,"  said  Partridge. 

And  it  was  almost  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  Melissine, 
and  Melissine  a  little  girl  again  having  hurt  herself. 


CHAPTER  LIV 

OUT  OF  THE  FULL  HEART 

WHAT  Partridge  had  come  to  tell  Mme.  Jenesco 
was  that  Mr.  Buckhannon  wished  to  speak  to  her. 
And  Partridge  gently  urged  her  to  do  this.   Not 
a  word  from  Partridge  as  to  what  might  have  happened 
to  her. 

"I'm  a  nice  one  to  see  any  one,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco. 
"I  look  like  a  freak."  8fek 

The  eruption  had  left  her  calm. 

"Put  a  little  cold  water  on  your  face/'  said  Partridge, 
"and  nothing  will  be  noticed.  You  can  go  up  to  your 
room  by  the  back  way.  They  won't  see  you.  I'll  tell 
them  that  you  are  changing  your  dress." 

"What  does  he  want  to  see  me  about?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  imagine  he  desires  to  question 
you." 

"What  about?" 

Partridge  was  apologetic.  His  voice  was  kind.  But 
he  came  out  with  the  salutary  truth. 

"I  imagine  it  is  concerning  your  status — and  mine." 

"Yours!" 

"I  believe  that  Miss  Tyrone  has  informed  him— of  my 
use— or  misuse — of  Miss  Tyrone's  money." 

320 


Mme.  Jenesco  laughed — a  harsh  little  laugh,  devoid, 
however,  of  either  humor  or  offense. 

"Well,  what  shall  I  tell  him?" 

"I  don't  presume  to  give  you  advice,"  said  Partridge 
humbly. 

"Give  it  anyway,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "I'd  about  as 
lief  take  your  advice  as  the  advice  of  any  man  I  know." 

"Thank  you" — and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  fact 
that  Partridge's  gratitude  was  sincere. 

"Go  on!"  Mme  Jenesco  urged.  "What  do  you  ad 
vise?" 

Partridge's  voice  was  still  apologetic  to  a  degree.  His 
whole  attitude  was  apologetic  and  gentle. 

"My  advice,"  he  said,  "is  merely  to  obey  your  con 
science — say  what  your  conscience  dictates,  and  do  what 
it  tells  you  to  do.  And — and — don't  be  unhappy.  If  I 
can  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way " 

"All  right,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco,  without  apparent 
emotion.  "Tell  him  I'll  be  down — I'll  see  him  here — in 
fifteen  minutes." 

Mme.  Jenesco  was  an  entirely  different  woman  from 
the  one  that  Buckhannon  had  seen  earlier  in  the  day.  She 
appeared  to  be.  So  she  was  in  fact,  most  likely.  There 
may  be  no  such  thing  as  a  sudden  conversion,  but  there 
are  most  certainly  sudden  changes  of  personality. 
Sometimes  these  changes  are  permanent — one  personality 
being  submerged — as  if  drowned  and  henceforth  dead; 
some  other  personality  coming  up  to  play  the  dominant 
role  in  this  theater  which  is  the  human  body. 

321 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

The  tiger,  the  jungle-thing,  had  disappeared  from 
Mme.  Jenesco.  For  the  time  being  it  had,  at  any  rate — 
slain  by  the  white  arrows  of  that  mystical  huntsman, 
possibly. 

She  was  dressed  differently — dressed  in  her  favorite 
black,  but  decently  and  soberly. 

Buckhannon  had  been  the  more  embarrassed  of  the 
two.  He  had  been  expecting  almost  anything — almost 
anything  but  this.  She  greeted  him  almost  as  a  stranger 
would  have  greeted  him;  but  even  this  attitude  was  not 
exaggerated.  She  was  neither  friendly  nor  unfriendly. 
She  was  polite  but  not  too  polite. 

There  at  first  an  impertinent  small  voice  kept  dinging 
at  his  brain :  "A  little  while  ago  you  were  making  love  to 
this  woman,  and  she  was  making  love  to  you.  You  even 
thought  that  you  might  have  to  marry  her.  Didn't  you? 
You  were  a  fool.  Weren't  you?  You  thought  that  the 
whole  universe  had  gone  to  blazes.  Didn't  you?  This 
shows  you  how  important  you  are." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  And  she  herself 
sat  down.  "What  do  you  wish  to  ask  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  so  many  things,"  said  Buckhan 
non.  "They  are  things  that  concern  Miss  Tyrone's 
happiness." 

Mme.  Jenesco,  in  spite  of  her  new  poise,  was  too 
restless  to  remain  seated.  She  seemed  to  be  undecided 
as  to  just  what  to  say.  She  was  still  undecided  ap 
parently  as  she  turned  and  slowly  walked  to  the  end  of 
the  room  and  back  again.  During  this  slow  promenade 
she  did  not  once  look  at  Buckhannon.  There  was  no 

322 


Out  of  the  Full  Heart 

doubt  but  that  she  was  doing  some  hard  thinking.  Both 
her  voice  and  her  bearing  were  changed  when  she  next 
spoke.  She  had  come  to  a  stand  in  front  of  Buckhannon. 
She  faced  him  rather  as  a  man  would  face  him.  She 
was  through  with  her  role  of  enchantress. 

"I'm  going  to  talk  straight  to  you,"  she  said,  then 
paused. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  affirmed. 

"I  may  be  a  fool,"  she  continued,  "but  I'm  going  to 
trust  you."  There  was  a  touch  of  grim  humor  about  it' 
when  she  added :  "I  swore  I  would  never  trust  any  man 
again.  Many  a  woman  has  sworn  the  same  thing — but 
they  go  on  trusting  them." 

Buckhannon  spoke  up :  "I  don't  want  you  to  say  any 
thing  that  you'll  regret  later.  I'm  thinking  of  Miss 
Tyrone." 

"So  am  I,"  she  answered,  with  slow  thoughtfulness. 
"You  love  her  all  right.  I  don't  have  to  be  told.  And  she 
loves  you.  That  ought  to  be  enough,  God  knows !  But 
it  isn't.  It  never  is.  If  it  was,  this  earth  wouldn't  be 
such  a  rotten  place  to  live  on.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to 
speak  out.  Otherwise,  even  if  you  and  her  do  get  mar 
ried  and  go  on  loving  each  other  you'll  always  have  some 
doubt  in  your  mind,  and  it'll  get  worse  and  worse ;  then, 
some  day,  there'll  come  some  little  quarrel  or  other,  and 
the  doubt  will  start  you  to  saying  things." 

"Oh,  no,"  Buckhannon  began;  "that " 

But  Mme.  Jenesco  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  Her 
attitude  took  on  a  tinge  of  challenge. 

"When  I  first  came  here,"  she  said,  "I  did  have  some 

323 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

vague  idea  that  Nathan  Tyrone  was  my  father.  At  least, 
I  pretended  that  I  believed  it — pretended  even  to  myself. 
But  it  isn't  so.  I  knew  it  wasn't  so.  I  was  bluffing 
myself.  Do  you  want  to  know  what  brought  me  here? 
I'll  tell  you.  Partridge  said  it :  blackmail !  That's  what 
it  was." 

Buckhannon  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair.  "What  makes 
you  tell  me  this?"  he  asked.  He  had  chosen  at  random 
merely  one  of  the  many  questions  buzzing  in  his  thought. 

"It's  on  my  own  account,"  Mme.  Jenesco  replied,  with 
almost  her  first  gust  of  real  feeling.  "It's  for  my  own 
sake.  I'm  making  it  as  ugly  as  I  can  so  I  won't  try 
it  again." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  might  have  tried  it  again?" 
Buckhannon  queried.  He  had  been  hearing  about  black 
mail  all  his  life,  but  now  that  he  found  it  here  right  in 
front  of  him,  so  to  speak,  he  was  rather  dazed. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  woman  responded,  desperately. 
"I  might  slip  back.  Good  God!  Ain't  we  all  apt  to 
be  tempted  ?" 

Buckhannon  winced.    "Yes,"  he  said;  "we  are." 

"I've  always  laughed  at  this  reformation  stuff,"  she 
went  on.  And  she  tried  to  laugh,  but  she  didn't  succeed 
very  well.  "I  can  tell  you  this,  though,  that  I've  been 
up  against  something  too  big  for  me  ever  since  I  came 
here.  It's  got  me.  I'm  not  myself.  I'm  not  my  old  self. 
I'm  changed.  Just  now,  when  we  came  in  here  together, 
I  thought  that  I  could  con  you.  I  thought  that  I  could 
jolly  you  along.  And  I  could  have  done  it — just  a  few 
hours  ago.  Oh,  it  wouldn't  have  been  anything  against 

324 


Out  of  the  Full  Heart 

you.  I  know  men,  even  when  they  are  in  love  with  a 
decent  girl!" 

She  was  on  the  point  of  tears,  but  she  was  too  strong 
to  give  in.  Still,  she  was  willing  to  be  helped. 

"What  made  you  change?"  Buckhannon  asked. 

Buckhannon  felt  that  he  had  been  groping  in  the  dark 
hitherto.  He  felt  now  that  over  this  darkness  there  had 
come  a  flush  of  red  light.  But  whether  this  flush  pre 
saged  the  dawn  of  a  better  day  or  a  fresh  impending 
catastrophe  he  was  still  unable  to  say.  He  sat  there 
silent  while  Mme.  Jenesco  sought  in  her  own  mind — 
that  her  answer  might  be  just. 


CHAPTER  LV 

BLOOD   OF   THE   LAMB 

THE  girl  was  partly  responsible,"  said  Mme. 
Jenesco,  as  she  resumed  her  pacing.  "Any  one 
else  would  have  called  the  police.  She  didn't. 
She  would  have  stood  for  anything.  She  was  that  kind. 
It  would  have  been  easier  for  me  if  she  hadn't  been 
such  a  saint.  Oh,  the  world  can  say  what  it  wants  to 
about  the  clever  ones,  the  cunning  ones,  the  wise  ones, 
the  sort  who  never  trust  and  who  never  believe.  They're 
the  marks.  The  really  wise  ones  are  the  so-called 
suckers." 

All  this  disjointed,  a  bit  tumultuous,  while  Mme. 
Jenesco  kept  up  her  restless  pacing. 

"I  agree  with  you  there,"  Buckhannon  assented. 

"But  she  wasn't  everything,"  flashed  Mme.  Jenesco, 
turning  upon  him  as  if  for  fear  that  he  were  already 
giving  too  much  credit  where  the  credit  was  not  due. 
She  drew  up  a  chair  in  front  of  him  and  plumped  her 
self  into  it.  She  had  forgotten  herself  by  this  time. 
"After  all,"  she  said,  "it  was  the  old  man." 

"Mr.  Partridge?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Partridge." 

She  tried  to  sound  Buckhannon's  innermost  thought 

326 


Blood  of  the  Lamb 

with   her   eyes.      Buckhannon   perceived    her   concern. 

"I've  always  felt  that  his  intentions  were  good,"  Buck 
hannon  affirmed. 

"Say,"  Mme.  Jenesco  demanded,  softly,  "what  do  you 
know  about  him  claiming  to  be  my  father?" 

"Well,  wasn't  he?" 

"If  he  was,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco  with  real  reverence, 
"I'd  get  down  on  my  knees  and  thank  God — and  also 
to  ask  His  pardon  for  having  led  the  kind  of  life  I 
have  led." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Buckhannon — not  alto 
gether  truthfully ;  but  he  was  baffled  by  her  tone. 

There  was  a  touch  of  scorn  in  Mme.  Jenesco's  answer. 

"You've  lived  here  in  New  York,  haven't  you?  And 
you've  lived  in  Paris.  You  know  something  of  the  world. 
[You  don't  think  for  a  minute,  do  you,  that  a  man  like 
him  could  be  my  father  ?" 

Buckhannon  was  a  bit  stifled. 

"All  sorts  of  women  have  had  fine  fathers,"  he  said. 
"All  sorts  of  women  have  fine  qualities  in  them." 

"It's  because  you're  a  boy  who  can  say  things  like 
that,"  Mme.  Jenesco  returned,  "that  I'm  talking  to  you 
like  this  now.  But  it's  the  old  gentleman,  I  tell  you,  who 
has  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  I'm  not  staying 
here  now  on  my  own  account;  I've  lost  my  nerve,  I  tell 
you.  You're  going  to  think  I'm  lying,  aren't  you  ?  You're 
going  to  say:  'Why,  just  now  she  was  trying  to  vamp 
me,  and  now  listen  at  her!  Trying  to  work  the  old 
reform!  Pulling  the  sob  stuff!'" 

"Not  at  all,"  Buckhannon  declared. 

327 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco,  "because  I 
was  never  more  earnest  in  my  life.  Even  if  that  dear 
old  soul  wasn't  my  father  I  feel  as  if  he  was — I  feel 
as  I  would  feel  if  he  had  been." 

"But  if  he  isn't  your  father,  why  did  he  say  he  was  ?" 
Buckhannon  was  at  a  loss. 

"Because  he  was  sacrificing  himself.  That  was  why. 
He  said  that  he  was  my  father  so  that  no  suspicion 
could  fall  on  Melissine's  father  or  on  Melissine  herself. 
He  was  sacrificing  himself,  I  tell  you.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means?  Most  men  don't." 

"I'd  be  willing  to  sacrifice  myself — for  Melissine,"  said 
Buckhannon,  flushing  slightly  under  Mme.  Jenesco's 
gaze. 

"I  hope  it's  the  truth/'  she  said,  without  sarcasm. 
"They  all  say  that — and  some  of  them  believe  it — before 
they're  married;  but  God  pity  most  of  the  girls  later  on 
— when  they  are  married,  when  they're  not  so  good- 
looking,  or  when  they're  sick,  or  when  they  begin  to  get 
gray.  I'm  not  knocking  you,  you  understand.  I'm 
merely  saying  that  there  are  mighty  few  Partridges  in 
this  world." 

"And  you  mean,"  Buckhannon  demanded,  "that  he 
also  sacrificed  himself  on  your  and  your  mother's  ac 
count?" 

"How  so?" 

"By  stealing  all  that  money." 

"Him?    I  bet  he  never  stole  a  nickel  in  his  life." 

"But  he  said  he  did." 

"There's  a  mystery  there,"  Mme.  Jenesco  confessed. 

328 


Blood  of  the  Lamb 

"1  believe  that  he  lied  when  he  said  that  he  stole  that 
money.  My  idea  is  that  Mr.  Tyrone  sent  us  the  money 
himself  and  that  Partridge  wouldn't  admit  it  so  that  I 
wouldn't  have  even  that  leg  to  stand  on  if  the  thing 
came  into  the  courts.  I  know  that  Mr.  Tyrone  was  that 
sort  of  a  man.  He  was  that  sort  or  he  wouldn't  have 
brought  my  mother  here  in  the  first  place.  And  Par 
tridge  merely  lied  about  himself  to  frame  an  alibi.  Talk 
about  your  sacrifice !  He  would  have  let  me  send  him 
to  prison  before  he  would  have  given  me  the  chance  to 
hang  anything  on  the  man  whose  servant  he  had  been." 

"But  surely,"  Buckhannon  said,  "there  was  some  other 
way.  Partridge  must  have  known  that  there  was  noth 
ing  to  fear  from  the  truth." 

Mme.  Jenesco  shook  her  head. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  she  declared,  "the  truth  is  the 
only  thing  that  he  is  afraid  of.  It's  that  way  with  a 
lot  of  the  good  ones.  That's  nothing  against  them,  you 
understand.  It  only  means  that  we  all  got  a  lot  in  com 
mon.  What  makes  the  difference,  after  all?  It's  the 
heart.  It's  what  you  stand  ready  to  do  for  some  one 
else.  It's  willingness  to  be  the  goat.  That's  what  puts 
old  man  Partridge  above  the  level.  That's  what  has 
made  me  ashamed  of  myself,  and  that's  what  keeps  me 
here." 

"How  so — keeps  you  here?" 

"Because" — she  let  her  voice  drop  to  a  whisper — "this 
time  he  is  getting  ready  to  pull  something  that  he  hadn't 
ought  to." 

"What?" 

329 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

She  looked  at  him  meaningly,  but  Buckhannon  couldn't 
grasp  what  her  meaning  was.  He  said  so. 

"You've  told  me  this  much,"  he  said.  "You  might  as 
well  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to  tell.  I'm  your  friend. 
I'm  Partridge's  friend." 

"I  believe  you  are,"  she  admitted,  seriously.  "I  haven't 
found  anything  but  friendship  since  I  got  into  this  house. 
Maybe  that  would  be  the  case  with  the  whole  world 
if  we  only  got  next  to  each  other  better.  There  must 
be  many  an  old  grouch  walking  around  with  a  broken 
heart.  Many  a  tough  girl  has  times,  believe  me,  when 
she  says  her  prayers  just  like  the  other  kind."  This 
was  an  autobiographical  touch  perhaps.  She  hastily 
ended  the  digression.  She  asked:  "Do  you  know  that 
little  druggist  across  the  street?" 

"Yes." 

"So  do  I.  He  told  me.  He's  a  liar  about  a  lot  of 
things,  but  I  know  he  told  the  truth  this  time.  I  could 
tell  it  from  the  way  that  Partridge  has  been  acting 
Partridge  had  an  old  prescription.  He's  had  it  filled." 

But  before  Mme.  Jenesco  could  complete  her  revela 
tion,  whatever  it  was,  they  heard  a  door  click  at  the 
back  of  the  hall — a  gentle,  almost  imperceptible  click. 
It  was  Partridge  who  closed  a  door  like  that.  They 
heard  his  light,  but  rather  dragging  footfall — the  foot 
fall  of  an  old  man — and  they  knew  that  he  was  ap 
proaching. 

Neither  Buckhannon  nor  Mme.  Jenesco  spoke — they 
sat  there  rather  guiltily — as  Partridge  appeared  at  the 
door  and  entered. 

330 


CHAPTER  LVI 
ONE  DAY'S  GRACE 

PARTRIDGE  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts.  His  eyes  were  downcast.  His  back 
was  bowed.  Still  he  was  not  forgetful  of  his  serv 
ice.  He  went  over  to  the  windows  and  adjusted  the 
shades,  making  sure  that  none  of  them  varied  by  so 
much  as  an  inch  from  the  elevation  of  its  neighbors. 
By  the  last  window  he  stood  for  a  longish  spell  looking 
out.  The  shutters  of  the  old  house  were  no  longer  kept 
so  tightly  closed — now  that  Nathan  Tyrone  was  no 
longer  there  following  the  family  tradition.  Those  closed 
shutters  had  meant  "not  at  home"  to  purely  theoretical 
callers,  when  Nathan  Tyrone,  and  his  father,  and  his 
grandfather,  had  been  alive. 

Buckhannon  cleared  his  throat. 

Partridge  was  so  absorbed  he  did  not  hear. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Partridge!"  Buckhannon  called. 

"I  am  here,  sir!" — and  then  Partridge  recognized  his 
mistake.  There  for  a  moment  he  must  have  thought 
that  it  was  Nathan  Tyrone  who  called  him,  in  spite  of 
that  preliminary  "Mr." 

"Mr.  Buckhannon,  sir!" 

He  seemed  to  be  relieved  when  he  saw  Mme.  Jenesco'3 
smile. 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"I — I  beg  pardon,"  he  apologized.  "I  thought  the 
room  was  unoccupied."  He  himself  smiled.  And  he 
would  have  retired  at  once,  after  the  manner  of  a  well- 
trained  servant. 

But  Buckhannon  stayed  him.  "I  should  like  to  speak 
to  you  also  if  I  may,"  Buckhannon  said. 

Buckhannon  had  risen  to  his  feet.  Buckhannon  was 
deferential  and  intended  to  show  that  he  was  deferential. 
But  so  was  Partridge  deferential.  Partridge  murmured 
something  about  always  being  at  your  service,  sir. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  first  of  all,"  said  Buckhannon, 
"that  I  have  asked  Miss  Tyrone  to — to  confer  the  honor 
upon  me — I  know  that  I  am  not  good  enough — but  never 
theless — you  will  understand " 

"Perfectly,  sir." 

Partridge  was  as  calm  as  Buckhannon  was  agitated. 

"I've  asked  her  to  marry  me,"  Buckhannon  plunged. 
He  was  really  announcing  this  to  Mme.  Jenesco. 

"Permit  me,  sir,  to  offer  my  profound  congratula 
tions." 

This  was  straight  from  the  heart.  Partridge's  voice 
was  tremulous  with  emotion  when  he  said  it.  But  he 
wasn't  all  emotion.  At  the  same  time  any  one  could 
have  seen  that  he  was  thinking.  Buckhannon  wanted 
to  say  something  about  the  possibility  that  it  was  not 
yet  time  for  congratulations,  but  Partridge  had  reached 
the  end  of  at  least  one  train  of  thought.  He  put  in 
with: 

"Will  you  permit  me,  sir?" 

Buckhannon  nodded. 

332 


One  Day's  Grace 

"But  the  late  Mr.  Tyrone  started  to  tell  you  some 
thing,  I  believe,  when  the  progress  of  his  malady  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  proceed." 

"Yes,"  Buckhannon  whispered.  At  least  this  item  of 
the  general  mystery  was  to  be  cleared. 

Still  it  was  a  second  or  two  before  Partridge  could 
proceed.  Partridge  begged  pardon.  He  used  his  hand 
kerchief.  He  ventured  an  appealing  look  at  both  Buck 
hannon  and  Mme.  Jenesco.  A  sense  of  delicacy  caused 
Mme.  Jenesco  to  stroll  away  and  look  at  a  picture. 

"Mr.  Tyrone  spoke  about  it  on  the  night  of  his  death," 
said  Partridge.  "He  commissioned  me  to1  give  you  his 
message  should  occasion  arise.  I  dare  say  that  it  would 
be  proper  to  do  so  now." 

Buckhannon  spoke  urgently: 

"You  may  tell  me.  I  confess  that  I  have  often  won 
dered  what  it  was.  But  whatever  it  is,  it  will  make  no 
difference." 

Partridge  regarded  him  with  an  added  shade  of  dis 
tress. 

"I  shouldn't  say  that,  sir,"  Partridge  quavered. 

"But  it's  the  truth."  After  all,  this  was  no  mere  serv 
ant  to  whom  he  was  speaking.  This  was  Melissine's 
friend — her  best  and  oldest  friend.  "Do  you  think," 
he  demanded,  "that  anything  that  ony  one  could  tell  me 
about  Miss  Tyrone  would  make  me  think  the  less  of 
her?" 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  words  failed  him  to 
convey  his  idea  of  such  a  monstrous  suggestion.  Be 
sides,  Partridge  was  speaking  again. 

333 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Oh!  Oh!"  Partridge  had  exclaimed.  "So  that  was 
it!  You  are  worthy,  sir — if  you  will  permit  me  to  say 
it;  doubly  worthy!  And  Mr.  Tyrone,  his  spirit,  will 
know,  will  bless  you.  That  was  the  very  nature  of  his 
message." 

"What?" 

"He  wished  to  tell  you  that  his  daughter  was  not  as 
other  young  ladies — that  she  was  an  angel — that  only 
through  a  proper  sense  of  this,  and  a  proper  devotion — 
I  am  but  quoting  what  he  would  have  said  to  you,  sir 
— could  any  man,  even  you,  sir — and  you  will  under 
stand — could  be  worthy  of  her.  That  was  what  he 
wanted  to  say." 

"And  that  was  all?"  Buckhannon  succeeded  in  get 
ting  the  question  out  after  one  long  breath.  There  had 
come  to  him  even  the  glint  of  hope  that  so  would  all 
darkness  fade  when  the  truth  came  out.  "There  was 
nothing  else?" 

"Nothing  else,  sir — except  that  Mr.  Tyrone  seemed 
to  be  convinced  that  you  would  show  yourself  to  be 
worthy."  Partridge  met  Buckhannon's  eye.  What  he 
saw  there  was  a  confusion  of  thought,  a  sympathy  for 
himself  perhaps  and  yet  a  glint  of  pain.  "Did  you  think 
that  there  was  something  else  ?" 

"You  know  that  I  did,"  Buckhannon  answered  quietly. 
"You  know  that  I  must  have  thought  so."  I 

"There  was  nothing,  sir.  Perhaps  you  will  permit  me, 
as  one  so  long  associated  with  the  family — and  honor 
ably,  I  trust — at  least  as  one  who  has  always  had  Miss 
Tyrone's  welfare  deeply — oh,  most  deeply — at  heart——" 

334 


One  Day's  Grace 

Partridge  cast  a  glance  in  the  direction  whither  Mme. 
Jenesco  had  retreated.  She  was  out  of  earshot.  He 
brought  his  distressed  old  eyes  back  to  Buckhannon's 
young  and  friendly  ones. 

"I  wish  to  tell  you,  sir " 

Partridge  spoke  quaveringly,  in  a  hurried,  broken 
whisper,  as  one  might  who  cons  a  full  volume  with  but 
a  limited  time  to  do  it  in.  And  it  did  not  help  him  at 
all,  so  far  as  coherence  of  statement  was  concerned, 
that  just  then  various  strands  of  music,  silvery  and  faint, 
came  drifting  into  the  room.  Melissine,  left  to  her  own 
devices,  had  again  turned  to  her  harp.  There  were 
the  first  few  preliminary  chords,  just  to  see  that  the 
instrument  was  in  tune.  But  her  mood  must  have  been 
solemn.  The  chords  became  unmistakable.  An  old 
hymn: 

"Nearer  My  God  to  Thee." 

"I  am  aware,"  said  Partridge,  "that  this  has  been  a 
house  with  a  bad  name.  But  if  there  have  been  grounds 
for  the  tradition,  the  tradition  has  been  no>  less  essen 
tially  false.  Oh,  sir;  there  has  been  grief  here,  misun 
derstanding,  heartache;  but  in  what  house  has  there 
not  been  such?  And  nothing  vile! — nothing  vile  in  the 
sight  of  the  Lord !  Yes,  there  has  been  pride !  But  it 
has  been  an  honorable  pride.  It  was  a  pride  I  shared. 
I  also  suffered.  But  I  have  tried  to  keep  the  faith." 

It  was  as  if  an  angelic  refrain  furnished  the  overtone : 

E'en  tho'  it  be  a  cross 
That   raiseth  me  .  .  . 

335 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"Mr.  Partridge,"  Buckhannon  began. 

"Just  Partridge,  sir." 

"Comrade,"  said  Buckhannon.  "Tell  me  what  it -is 
— this  secret  that  has  been  bearing  down  on  you  so 
hard." 

"There  was  none " 

"Yes  there  was,  and  is.    Let  me  share  it." 

There  was  negation  on  Partridge's  lips,  but  his  eyes 
could  not  lie.  His  eyes  spoke  now.  His  eyes  were  say 
ing  that  there  was  something — oh,  that  there  had  been 
something  all  along;  that  not  for  anything  in  the  world 
would  he  reveal  to  her  who  played  the  harp  back  there. 
But  so  were  there  words  in  Buckhannon's  steady  look. 
The  words  constituted  a  demand  that  Partridge  yield 
his  secret. 

Just  then  the  music  stopped.  The  harpist  let  out 
a  hail: 

"Where  is  every  one?    May  I  come  in?" 

"Not  a  word,  sir.     Not  now,"  Partridge  implored. 

"When  then?"  Buckhannon  demanded. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Partridge.  "Yes;  I  think  that  I 
may  tell  you,  sir;  that  by  to-morrow  everything  will  be 
cleared  up." 

"No  foolishness,"  said  Buckhannon  soberly. 

"Ah,  no,  sir,"  Partridge  promised;  "the  Lord  be  my 
witness  I" 


CHAPTER  LVII 

"ULALUME" 

THIS  was  the  eve  of  the  second  day  of  June — a 
date  important  in  the  history  of  many  a  New 
York  family,  but  no  more  important  than  other 
dates  to  other  families;  a  date  important  enough  to  the 
denizens  of  Cinnamon  Street,  however;  more  important 
than  they  presently  suspected. 

Still,  one  would  have  said  that  old  Mr.  Partridge 
knew,  seated  up  there  in  that  chaste  and  somewhat 
monkish  room  of  his  on  the  top  floor  of  No.  6.  For 
Partridge,  even  more  than '  usual,  was  meditating  on 
the  respective  blessings  of  life  and  death,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  that  calendar  that  Melissine  had  given  him.  His  eyes 
were  on  the  date,  and,  although  he  was  long  past  seeing 
either  date  or  motto,  he  had  the  date  by  memory: 

June  2:  "Mark  the  perfect  man,  and  behold  the  up 
right  ;  for  the  end  of  that  man  is  peace !" 

"The  end  of  that  man  is  peace,"  Partridge  repeated 
to  himself;  "the  end  of  that  man  is  peace.  Ah,  blessed 
promise!  How  many  toil  and  sweat  and  tremble;  how 
many  strive,  how  many  hunger,  how  many  soothe  a  sick 
child  or  hunt  the  child  that  is  lost!  And  yet  their  ends 
shall  be  peace." 

337 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

But  all  this  part  of  the  old  gentleman's  thought  was 
like  the  quivering  end  of  a  search-light :  soaring  high, 
picking  out  clouds  no  human  eye  could  see,  losing  itself 
in  infinities ;  while  all  the  time  the  director  of  this  search 
light  had  his  feet  on  earth,  and  he  himself  preoccupied 
with  earthly  problems.  "Even  if  I  told  Mr.  Buckhan- 
non — no,  I  cannot  tell  him.  But  I  have  promised." 

The  problem  was  difficult. 

"He  is  the  soul  of  honor,"  said  Partridge.  "He  is 
a  gentleman.  I  know  that  he  would  never  mention  the 
matter  to  Melissine  were  I  to  ask  him  not  to  do  so. 
But  have  I  the  right  to  put  a  secret  between  them  at 
the  very  outset  of  their  nuptial  career — put  a  serpent, 
belikes,  in  their  garden  ?  Guidance,  O  Lord !" 

And  ever  that  answer  from  the  other  part  of  his 
brain : 

"The  end  of  that  man  is  peace!" 

T(I  am  far  from  perfect,"  said  Partridge;  but  some 
thing  of  the  Tyrone  pride  apoke  up  within  him,  and 
he  added :  "and  yet  have  I  tried.  It  is  not  too  late.  It 
is  never  too  late.  Grant  that  I  be  perfect — just  this 
once — that  I  may  know  peace,  and  give  peace." 

To  the  highly  imaginative — had  there  been  such  fa 
miliar  with  all  the  circumstances — it  would  have  seemed 
that  the  dark  angel  was  in  Cinnamon  Street  this  night 
undecided  as  to  which  of  two  old  men  he  should  choose ; 
the  dark  angel,  Azrael,  who  hovers  over  the  dying — al 
though  many  of  these  do  not  know  that  they  are  such 
—and  helps  the  soul  to  quit  the  body;  undecided  and 

338 


"UMume" 

hesitant,  although  to-night  he  will  be  busy  as  usual.  To 
night,  in  New  York  alone,  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  will 
require  his  presence,  mostly  old  people,  like  these  cer 
tain  two  old  men  of  Cinnamon  Street,  or  the  very,  very 
young. 

The  other  old  man  is  Goodenough,  the  poetic  cabby. 

Early  this  night  he  had  come  weaving  into  Cinnamon 
Street,  "with  vine-leaves  in  his  hair,"  as  the  poet  said. 
He  had  been  on  his  way  to  the  hay-mow  that  was  his 
home;  he  who  had  been  so  gallant  these  thirty  years 
agone.  But  the  churchyard  had  called  him.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  fragrance  of  the  locust-bloom.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  memory  of  the  young  people  he  had  seen  loitering 
there  earlier  in  the  day.  Perhaps  it  was  an  earlier 
recollection. 

In  any  case  he  had  watched  with  vinous  cunning  to 
make  sure  that  the  policeman,  Hickcock,  was  not  on 
this  part  of  his  beat.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  such  an 
audience  as  Hickcock  even  might  give  him,  although 
talking  to  Hickcock  was  like  talking  to  a  tree  or  a 
troll. 

Goodenough  passed,  therefore,  unperceived  through 
the  gate  by  the  chapel  and  found  himself  in  the  fragrant 
depths  of  a  seclusion  such  as  the  churchyard  furnished 
him.  He  found  a  place  where  the  grass  was  deep. 
There  he  composed  himself  to  rest  and  meditate.  He 
was  in  one  of  his  most  poetic  states;  lulled,  body  and 
brain,  by  the  wine  he  had  taken;  but  that  inner  self  of 
his  awake,  upstanding,  with  alabaster  fingers  ready  set 
to  the  strings  of  a  golden  lyre. 

339 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

So  he  perceived  himself. 

So  he  had  often  perceived  himself  before. 

But  this  night  it  was  altogether  different,  and  he  dis 
covered  this  with  a  thrill  of  happiness. 

Hitherto  there  had  always  been  the  sub- feeling  that 
presently  the  fumes  of  the  wine  would  pass,  and  that  he 
would  wake  up  again,  and  that  once  more  he  would  be 
Goodenough  the  sodden,  Goodenough  the  cabby,  old 
Goodenough,  the  man  with  the  face  he  was  ashamed 
to  look  at.  But  now  he  was  the  poet  of  the  golden 
lyre.  He  saw  himself  standing  slim  and  graceful,  an 
Apollo,  with  smooth,  round  arms  and  legs,  curly  hair 
crowned  with  laurel.  The  lyre  was  solid  to  his  touch. 
He  smote  the  strings.  He  heard  a  quaver  of  melody 
so  rich  that  it  brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes — tears  of 
gratitude  that  there  should  be  such  music. 

Then  a  queer  thing  happened  to  Goodenough — a  very 
queer  thing.  It  was  something  he  wished  he  could  set 
down  in  immortal  verse  for  the  instruction  and  solace 
of  all  such  as  he. 

He  was  in  two  places  at  once.  He  was  two  persons 
at  once.  Nay,  three !  One  of  him  was  the  Goodenough 
he  had  stretched  on  the  grass.  The  other  of  him  con 
tinued  to  be  the  godlike  creature  of  the  lyre.  And  some 
sort  of  a  struggle  was  going  on  between  the  two,  with 
himself  aware  of  the  fact,  somewhat  as  a  third  person 
ality,  but  unable  to  intercede  except  by  a  sort  of  mute 
desire.  He  wanted  the  godlike  creature  to  win.  And 
this  hadn't  been  going  on  very  long  before  another  spec 
tator  had  joined  the  group — subsequent  events  proved 

340 


"UlalvmeT 

that  this  may  have  been  Hickcock.  And  to  him  the 
Goodenough  who  was  godlike  cried  out : 

"Friend  Azrael?" 

"Come  along,"  said  Azrael.    "I  will  give  you  a  hand." 

"I  have  loved  you;  I  have  sung  to  you,"  said  Good- 
enough  the  godlike.  "I  knew  that  you  would  not  fail 
me  now." 

"Why  came  ye  here?"  asked  Azrael. 

"I  sought  her: 

By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb; 
'Ulalume — Ulalume — 
" — were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb— 
Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume.' " 

Then  Goodenough  experienced  a  slight  shock,  a  dis 
solution  of  all  that  had  kept  him  uncertain,  and  he  had 
become  merged  utterly  with  the  godlike  one,  so  that  he 
himself  was  the  godlike  one  and  the  godlike  one  was 
he.  Suddenly  his  limbs  were  light.  His  back  was  supple 
and  strong.  His  soul  was  music. 

He  felt  nothing  but  joy  even  when  he  heard  the 
angel  Azrael — or  was  it  Hickcock? — cry  out  that  he 
was  dead,  that  Goodenough  was  dead.  For  Goodenough 
himself  knew  better.  He,  the  real  Goodenough,  was 
never  so  much  alive.  This  was  youth.  This  was  of  the 
very  essence  of  life — life  everlasting.  He  smote  his  lyre 
again,  and  this  time  there  was  the  stirring  of  a  thou 
sand  musical  echoes;  like  the  free  concert  of  the  choral 
society  he  had  once  attended:  "Glory  to  God  in  the 
highest!" 

341 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

But  right  in  the  midst  of  this  joy  unspeakable  he 
felt  the  pang  of  a  yearning.  He  would  seek  her  now 
— the  one  he  had  come  to  seek.  Caparisoned  like  this 
he  would  show  himself  to  her. 

And  all  this  time,  there  at  a  darkened  window  in  No. 
6,  a  window  that  overlooked  the  chapel-yard,  was  Mme. 
Jenesco,  the  woman  who  was  the  daughter  of  her  whom 
Goodenough  had  loved  and  who  may  have  been,  most 
likely  was,  Goodenough's  own  daughter.  No  wonder 
some  sort  of  an  extra  pang  came  to  her,  although  she 
knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  there  under  the 
locust-trees  and  among  the  tombstones;  no  wonder  she 
felt  an  extra  pang  of  loneliness ! 

To  whom  could  she  turn?  There  was  only  one.  And 
yet  she  thought  of  him  with  a  sudden  start,  for  she  had 
thought  again  of  that  prescription  that  Partridge  had 
had  filled. 

"What  if,  after  all " 

Terror  winged  her  feet  as  she  fled  through  the  dark 
and  silent  old  house  in  the  direction  of  Partridge's  room. 
She  sped  up  the  dark  stairs — a  mere  ghost  of  a  woman ; 
a  mere  ghost  of  her  former  self. 


CHAPTER  LVIII 

SO    MUCH    FOR    SO    MUCH 

IT  may  be  mentioned  here  and  now  that  Goodenough 
— the  earthly  part  of  him  at  any  rate — did  die  this 
night.  Late  in  the  night  he  had  been  discovered  by 
his  friend,  the  policeman  of  this  beat,  Jerome  Hickcock 
by  name. 

"At  first,"  said  Hickcock,  "I  was  for  thinkin'  him 
drunk  again,  especially  when  he  begins  to  pull  the  old 
poetry  on  me  again,  and  to  talk  about  the  dame  he  was 
stuck  on  once.  'Come  along,'  I  says,  'I'll  bed  you  down/ 
I  says.  You  know,  sort  o'  jokin'.  And  with  his  hand 
in  mine — a  dom  fine  man ;  a  man  wit'  a  heart." 

A  great  funeral  they  gave  to  Goodenough.  Hickcock 
was  for  paying  for  it  himself,  but  Pliny  saw  to  that — 
Pliny  the  younger.  "He  was  no  good  any  more,"  said 
Pliny;  "but  he  was  a  friend  of  my  old  man's." 

Epitaph  enough  for  any  old  gentleman. 

Partridge  was  forgetful  of  all  else  when  he  heard  a 
knock  on  his  door.  It  reminded  him  of  old  times — 
when  Nathan  Tyrone  was  young  and  sought  his  conn 
pany,  or  when  Melissine  was  a  little  girl.  He  raised 
himself  from  the  edge  of  his  couch  with  surprising  agil- 

343 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

ity.  He  was  at  the  door  in  a  moment,  had  flung  it  open. 
The  candle  flickered  in  the  sudden  gust  of  air.  For 
a  moment  he  was  seeing  no  one.  Then  he  saw  her. 

"Mme.  Jenesco !" 

"I — I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said. 

She  had  undressed  herself  for  the  night,  but  she  had 
drawn  a  peignoir  over  her  night-dress.  There  was  no 
paint  on  her  face. 

"Pray  come  in,"  said  Partridge.  He  stood  aside  to 
let  her  pass. 

She  looked  about  her — the  one  candle  flickering  in  its 
porcelain  candlestick,  the  open  but  shuttered  window 
where  a  scant  and  worn  but  perfectly  clean  chintz  cur 
tain  fluttered  on  its  cotton  string,  the  small  white  dresser, 
the  solitary  wooden  chair,  the  narrow  white  cot. 

"You  were  still  up,"  she  said. 

It  was  an  allusion  to  the  fact  that  Partridge  was  still 
fully  dressed. 

"I  seldom  retire  early,"  he  said.  "And" — he  hoped 
she  would  not  think  that  he  was  blaming  her  in  any 
way — "here  lately  I  have  not  been  sleeping  very  well." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  for  that " 

"Won't  you  be  seated?" 

She  sat  down.  "I  was  worried  about  you,"  she  said, 
changing  the  current  but  not  the  purport  of  what  she 
had  started  to  say.  "I've  seen  enough  of  the  world 
where  such  things  happen.  I  knew  about  your  buying 
that  chloral." 

"Oh !"  said  Partridge.  He  looked  at  her  a  little  more 
intently. 

344 


So  Much  for  So  Much 

She  had  seated  herself.  She  sought  for  a  time  to 
avoid  his  eyes,  but  finally  she  faced  him  as  he  resumed 
his  place  on  the  edge  of  his  cot.  A  little  color  came 
into  her  pale  face. 

"I've  been  pretty  rotten,"  she  said,  "but  I  didn't  want 
that  on  my  conscience." 

"Want  what  on  your  conscience?" 

"Wasn't  it  for  that  you  bought  the  chloral?" 

"You  mean — to  destroy  myself?" 

"Yes." 

Partridge  closed  his  eyes.  He  bowed  his  head.  He 
seemed  to  realize  as  for  the  first  time  just  what  his  in 
tentions  really  had  been  with  regard  to  the  chloral.  Then 
he  let  his  old  eyes  drift  to  Melissine's  calendar. 

"I've  known  a  girl  or  two  who  took  it  for  the  same 
reason,"  said  Mme.  Jenesco.  "They  took  it  because 
they  wanted  to  be  rid  of  it  all." 

"Girls?    When  they  had  youth " 

"That's  what  got  their  nerve,"  Mme.  Jenesco  enlight 
ened.  "It  wouldn't  have  mattered  so  much  if  they  were 
old.  Then  it  would  have  been  over  for  them  before 
long  anyway.  But,  being  young,  and  knowing  that  they 
might  go  on  getting  the  rotten  end  of  it  for  another 
fifty  years  or  so — oh!  I  don't  blame  them!  I  don't 
blame  them!" 

Partridge  reflected. 

"I  know  that  there  is  suffering  in  the  world,"  he 
said.  "I  know  that  there  are  so  many  things  that  we 
do  not  understand,  that  it  does  seem  at  times  as  if  life 
were  in  vain,  times  when  we  say:  'What  does  it  all 

345 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

amount  to?'    But,  even  when  the  world  is  darkest,  there 
is  a  candle  lighted  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  us " 

His  thought  became  so  spiritual  that  his  voice  was 
insufficient  and  flickered  into  silence. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  things  you  don't  know  about," 
said  Mme.  Jenesco,  not  without  sympathy. 

"True,"  said  Partridge.  "I  have  been  spared  many 
things.  I  have  been  granted  many  blessings.  I  seem 
to  have  forgotten  them  here  of  late.  I  have  tried ;  there 

has  been  something "     He  bowed  his  head,  again, 

suddenly  tired  and  weak. 

The  spectacle  of  his  bowed  head,  so  clean  and  glis 
tening  white  in  the  candle-light,  seemed  to  move  Mme. 
Jenesco  greatly. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry  that  I  ever  said  what 
I  did.  I'd  rather  die  myself  than  make  you  any  trouble. 
I'll  go  away  to-morrow,  and  you'll  never  hear  of  me 
again.  I  swear  I  will.  Don't  be  so  broken  up.  I  can't 
stand  it  to  see  you  like  that.  I'll  go  back  to  the  old 
life,  I  will,  and  take  what's  coming  to  me.  It's  all  I'm 
fit  for.  I  didn't  know  that  there  were  people  like  you 
in  the  world.  I  merely  thought  that  there  were  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  lucky  and  the  unlucky,  God's 
favorites  and  the  Godforsaken.  I  was  tired  of  being 
one  of  the  goats.  I  wanted — peace!" 

"Peace,  peace !"  he  murmured. 

Partridge  did  not  yet  look  up.  Perhaps  she  thought 
that  he  hadn't  heard  her.  She  kneeled  down  in  front 
of  him  and  tried  to  lift  his  face. 

"Old  man,"  she  coaxed. 

346 


So  Much  for  'So  Much 

"What  is  it?"  Partridge's  voice  was  thick  but  mild. 

"Think  of  me"  she  said.  "I've  come  nearer  to  loving 
you  than  I've  ever  loved  any  one  in  the  world  before. 
My  mother  was  no  good.  They  were  a  joke  to  me — 
all  these  mother-songs." 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,  my  child,"  Partridge  gently 
reproved. 

But  she  pursued  her  line  of  thought. 

"And  as  for  a  father !  Wouldn't  I  be  proud,  though, 
if  I  had  a  father  like  you!  I'd  tell  the  world  I  would. 
And  I'd  show  the  world  by  being  decent,  I  would.  God, 
when  I  think  how  I  treated  you — the  things  I  said  to 
you  !  But  you'll  forgive  me,  won't  you?" 

"I  forgive  you ;  and  I  dare  say  so  will  He." 

This  latter  statement,  and  some  train  of  associated 
thought,  seemed  to  move  Mme.  Jenesco*  more  even  than 
she  had  already  been  moved. 

"You've  made  me  think,"  she  said;  then  there  was  a 
catch  in  her  voice.  "You've  made  me  think  that  the 
world  wasn't  so  bad — and  that  I  wasn't  so  bad " 

Without  visible  transition  it  was  now  she  who  was  the 
comforted,  and  it  was  Partridge  who<  was  the  com 
forter.  She  had  put  her  face  on  his  knee,  while  her 
shoulders  shook ;  he  had  put  his  hand  on  her  head. 

"I — I  never  had  a  father,"  she  said. 

Partridge  looked  at  the  calendar.  When  he  spoke 
his  words  were  a  declaration: 

"You  have  now,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  LIX 

THE   SECRET 

THEY  let  this  little  storm  of  emotion  through  which 
both    of   them    had   passed    subside    into   peace. 
They  let  this  peace  take  possession  of  them.    For 
Partridge,  at  least,  the  cheap  calendar  on  the  wall  was 
become  as  the  sun,  and  the  light  of  it  was  on  his  face. 

".  .  .  for  the  end  of  that  man  is  peace!" 

For  the  time  being,  even  New  York  seemed  to  slum 
ber.  A  fitful  breeze  stirred  the  scant  white  curtain,  and 
the  curtain  went  gayly  playful.  The  breeze  brought  with 
it  a  fragrance  of  grass  and  locust-bloom.  No ;  this  soiled 
child  had  said  it.  The  world  wasn't  so  bad. 

"What  is  your  real  name?"  asked  Partridge.  "What 
is  your  real  Christian  name? — Mary?  Susan?" 

"My  name  is  Belle,"  Mme.  Jenesco  replied. 

"Belle !"  said  Partridge.  "The  word  for  beautiful.  It 
is  a  beautiful  name.  You'll  be  my  child,  Belle.  I — I 
never  thought  that  I  should  be  so  fortunate.  I  dare 
say  that  you  will  be  provided  for.  There  must  be  some 
way." 

Belle  took  Partridge's  hands  in  hers.  She  looked  up 
into  his  face.  She  studied  him  with  rapt  devotion. 

348 


The  Secret 

"You  never  stole  that  money,"  she  said  slowly. 

Partridge  closed  his  lips  and  his  eyes.  He  let  his 
chin  sink  on  his  breast.  He  meditated.  But  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  again  he  was  calm  and  strong. 

"We  shall  trust  each  other  now,"  he  said.  "It  would 
have  been  better  had  I  trusted  you  all  along." 

She  went  into  a  little  panic.    The  panic  misled  her. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  she  said.  "Even  if  you  did  take 
a  little  money,  that  won't  make  any  difference.  They 
shouldn't  have  kept  you  working  here  all  these  years  at 
a  servant's  salary." 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Partridge  gently.  "The  Tyrones  were 
ever  generous.  Just  shortly  before  Mr.  Nathan  Tyrone 
undertook  his  last  voyage  to  Europe  he  told  me  to  in 
crease  my  salary — to  double  it,  in  fact." 

"I  shouldn't  say  anything,"  Belle  assented  softly,  re 
membering  favors  received. 

"Neither  of  us  should  say  anything,"  Partridge  pur 
sued.  "He  was  a  proud  man  and  a  reserved  man.  He 
had  no  more  idea  of  the  value  of  money  than  a  little 
child  would  have  had.  When  he  was  little,  his  father 
placed  a  hundred  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  bank. 
He  drew  but  one  check  against  this  sum.  This  was  a 
check  for  the  entire  amount  that  he  gave  to  a  blind 
man — a  blind  man  who,  it  developed,  could  see." 

"No  wonder  you  were  tempted !" 

"I  was  tempted.  You  see,  Mr.  Nathan's  father  was 
aware  of  his  son's  weakness.  And  there  had  been  that 
unfortunate  estrangement.  They  were  both  proud  men. 
When  the  elder  Tyrone  was  near  death  he  called  me 

349 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

to  his  bedside.  He  was  still  bitter  against  his  son.  He 
was  bitter  against  the  foreign  woman  Nathan  had  taken 
to  be  his  wife,  although  the  elder  Tyrone  had  never 
seen  her — had  always  refused  to  see  her.  There,  I  sup 
pose  that  they  have  met  in  heaven,  now,  and  entered 
into  the  truce.  But  it  was  hard  upon  me.  Yes,  I  con 
fess  that  the  door  was  opened  to  temptation — to  pride, 
to  worldliness.  Had  Nathan  ever  suspected  the  facts, 
that  would  have  been  an  end  of  it." 

"You  mean  that  he  would  have  driven  you  out." 

"It  would  have  driven  him  out." 

"Driven  him  out!    Why?" 

Partridge  hung  his  head. 

"But  Melissine — she  loved  you,"  Mme.  Jenesco 
prompted,  softly. 

"No  more  than  her  father  did,  perhaps.  But  I  had 
to  keep  the  secret — keep  it  all  these  years.  Was  it  not 
this  that  cast  its  shadow  over  the  house?  It  was  a 
darkness — a  mystery — and  I  couldn't  explain — couldn't 
take  it  into  the  courts — could  only  wait  for  death.  Is 
it  strange  that  the  house  came  to  have  a  bad  name?" 

"Tell  me  what  it  was,"  said  Belle. 

But  now  that  Partridge  was  launched  on  this  theme 
that  had  kept  him  silent  for  years  he  had  to  develop 
it  further. 

"What  could  I  say?  The  least  hint  would  have  been 
fatal.  Judge  Bancroft,  a  man  of  the  utmost  probity 
as  well  as  learning,  had  fallen  in  with  my  plan  long  ago. 
It  was  simple.  I  was  old.  I  expected  that  my  own  demise 
would  precede  that  of  Mr.  Nathan  by  many  years.  Even 

350 


The  Secret 

now  it  would  have  helped — this  night — for  to-morrow 
I  have  promised  to  reveal  the  secret  to  Mr.  Buckhannon." 

"What  is  the  secret?" 

"You  shall  know." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  tell  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

There  followed  a  long  silence.  Belle  studied  the  old 
man's  face  as  an  earnest  scholar  might  have  studied  the 
white  parchment  of  an  ancient  manuscript.  He  did  not 
try  to  avoid  her  scrutiny.  Neither  of  them  smiled.  There 
was  a  sadness,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  in  the 
face  of  each  of  them. 

"Did  you  mean  it — just  now,"  she  whispered,  "when 
you  said  that  you  would  be  a  father  to  me?" 

"I  did — though  poor  and  unworthy " 

"You're  neither,"  she  said.  "You're  one  of  God's 
own  noblemen.  Listen !  You  won't  get  mad,  will  you  ? 
You  said  you  would  be  my  father.  You  said  that  you 
meant  it.  You've  got  to  let  me  be  a  daughter  to  you. 
You  will,  Won't  you?  Don't  say  you  won't.  You're 
the  first  person  I  really  ever  wanted  to  do  anything 
for." 

"Why,  God  bless  you!"  said  Partridge. 

"But  I've  got  a  little  money,"  Belle  hurried  on.  "It 
ain't  much.  But  it'll  be  enough  for  you  and  me.  It 
don't  matter  where  I  got  it.  It  don't  matter  how  I  got 
it.  Not  if  I  put  it  to  a  good  use.  Tell  me  that  it  don't. 
I  want  to  be  good.  I  want  to  be  good  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.  Oh,  honest  to  God,  I  do!" 

She  checked  a  sob.  The  better  to  check  it  she  got  to 

351 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

her  feet.  She  tried  to  smile.  But  the  things  that  Par 
tridge  was  trying  to  tell  her — with  his  eyes  as  much  as 
by  word  of  mouth — merely  made  matters  worse. 

She  had  crossed  the  little  room  to  where  the  calendar 
hung.  It  was  mere  chance  that  she  rested  her  head 
against  the  calendar.  The  shadow  of  her  head — dark  red, 
like  that  of  one  of  Heller's  Magdalenes — blotted  out  the 
text  of  the  day,  but  another  text  gleamed  out : 

"Knowing  that  tribulation  worketh  patience;  and  pa* 
tience,  experience;  and  experience,  hope." 


CHAPTER  LXV 

ERE  FADES  THE  ROSE! 

PERHAPS  something  of  all  this  came  to  Eugene 
Buckhannon  in  his  sleep.  Such  things  must  hap 
pen.  There  must  be  some  system  whereby  in 
telligences  react  on  intelligences  in  ways  unguessed  and 
undevised  of  man — else  whence  come  all  the  poems  of 
the  world,  the  prophecies,  the  loves  at  first  sight,  the 
sudden  fads,  fervors,  and  contagions? 

In  any  case,  Buckhannon  arose  from  a  sleep  that 
was  sound — and  dreamless,  so  far  as  he  was  aware — 
but  knew  straightway  that  he  had  gained  wisdom.  "The 
night  brings  counsel,"  says  the  Frenchman;  which  is 
but  another  way  of  saying,  "After  darkness,  dawn!" 

So  Buckhannon  reflected. 

Why  worry  ?  Why  not  seize  the  present  good  ?  Why 
search  for  gloom  when  the  sun  was  shining?  Why  dig 
up  trouble?  Wasn't  the  world  constantly  letting  the 
gifts  of  the  gods  go  to  waste  through  anxiety  as  to 
what  might  be  coming  next?  Useless  anxieties!  Vain 
fears !  Idiotic  glooms ! 

There  was  that  thing  that  old  Mr.  Partridge  was  going 
to  tell  him,  for  example.  What  in  the  devil  did  it 
amount  to,  anyway — so  long  as  Melissine  lived — and 

353 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

loved  him — him  Buckhannon!  All  this  while  he  was 
making  his  toilet  with  more  than  the  usual  care — bath, 
shave,  immaculate  silk  and  linen. 

It  didn't  occur  to  him,  except  subconsciously,  perhaps ; 
but  he  believed  in  the  Lochinvar  type ;  so  had  all  of  his 
clan — to  ride  in  and  carry  off  the  delectable  bride  and 
to  meditate  on  the  consequences  thereof  afterward.  As 
good  a  way  as  any,  to  judge  by  the  consequences  as 
manifested  by  the  family  thus  far.  There  was  happi 
ness  as  well  as  beauty  in  those  various  old  homes  of 
Tennessee  known  as  this  or  that  Buckhannon  place. 

Buckhannon  visualized  such  a  place  now — the  place 
that  would  be  all  his  own  some  day:  big  old  Colonial 
house,  lofty  white  pillars,  three  or  four  acres  of  door- 
yard  filled  with  grass  and  ancient  trees,  two  hundred 
acres  more  or  less  of  rich  farmland  swelling  away  to 
meet  the  acreage  of  other  Buckhannons;  then,  most 
of  all,  Melissine  the  mistress  of  this  domain.  He  saw 
her  garbed  in  white  out  under  the  trees.  He  saw  her 
presiding  over  the  family  table  when  there  should  be 
guests — gallant  men  and  other  beautiful  women.  He 
saw  her  at  her  harp  in  the  old-fashioned  parlor — heard 
her  music,  strings  and  voice,  as  he  smoked  his  cigar  in 
the  moonlight  out  on  the  porch. 

The  suite  of  reveries  had  brought  his  enthusiasm  to 
its  highest  pitch,  and  himself  to  Cinnamon  Street,  at  just 
about  the  time  that  Melissine  had  finished  breakfast. 
Once  more  it  had  been  Melissine  who  had  answered 
to  his  knock.  She  hadn't  been  expecting  him  so  early, 
but  she  had  experienced  a  lurch  of  hope — hope  for  what 

354 


Ere  Fades  the  Rose! 

she  couldn't  have  told.  Only,  she  had  been  feeling 
blue.  There  had  been  an  anxiety  upon  her  not  the  less 
disquieting  because  it  was  vague. 

For,  what  was  that  thing  that  Partridge  had  been 
keeping  to  himself?  Why  was  he  going  to  impart  this 
secret  to  Eugene  and  not  to  herself?  Was  it  a  family 
disgrace?  Was  it  something  that  was  going  to  make 
her  a  figure  of  scorn?  What  if  Eugene  should  go  away 
— and  leave  her — and  never  see  her  again? 

She  had  wrestled  with  her  soul  and  had  come  to  the 
decision : 

Yet  it  would  be  better  that  she  should  suffer  such  a 
fate,  even  if  it  killed  her,  than  that  she  should  bring 
upon  him  some  disgrace. 

All  this  in  Melissine's  head  and  in  her  breathless 
bosom  as  she  sped  through  the  hall  to  open  the  door. 
And  something  else: 

She  would  not  kiss  him! 

Ah,  no!  All  that  was  over  and  done  for  until  Eugene 
and  Grandy  had  had  their  talk.  She  would  be  reserved. 
She  would  hold  herself  aloof.  She  would  do  nothing 
to  embarrass  him. 

And  there,  almost  before  she  knew  it,  Buckhannon 
had  sprung  into  the  hall,  had  slammed  the  door  back 
of  him.  One  of  his  arms  was  about  her  waist,  one  of 
his  hands  was  back  of  her  head.  He  had  crushed  her 
to  him.  There  was  no  escape.  Oh,  she  wouldn't  have 
had  enough  strength  to  escape  anyway  even  if  he  had 
held  her  with  nothing  but  cobwebs. 

"Eugene!    Oh,  my  Eugene!" 

355 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

She  had  just  enough  strength  to  pant  his  name. 

But  into  this  cry  of  hers  she  was  throwing  all  the 
hope  that  this  world  held  for  her. 

And  what  was  this  that  he  was  telling  her? 

"Get  your  hat!    Get  your  hat  and  come  along!" 

"Where?" 

"To  City  Hall!" 

She  was  so  innocent  of  worldly  affairs  that  she  had 
to  ask  what  for.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  almost 
as  breathless  as  she  was  and  inclined  to  be  incoherent. 

"That's  where  we  have  to  go  to  get  the  license,"  he 
told  her. 

"What  license?" 

"We're  going  to  get  married !"  he  gusted. 

They  escaped  from  the  house  Heaven  knows  how — 
Melissine  so  excited  that  she  could  hardly  get  her  hat 
on,  Buckhannon  urging  her  to  come  along  hat  or  no 
hat.  Melissine  had  flung  the  message  over  her  shoulder 
to  such  as  might  hear  that  she  would  be  right  back. 
But  Buckhannon  would  stand  for  no  further  delay. 
Buckhannon  was  Lochinvar. 

And  it  thrilled  Melissine  to  the  very  marrow  to  be 
ordered  about  like  this.  It  would  have  been  fine  to  be 
dignified  and  aloof;  but  this  was  infinitely  finer  yet! 
Her  surrender  was  complete.  Who  wouldn't  have  sur 
rendered  in  the  face  of  such  overwhelming  force? 

But  she  did  become  a  little  frightened  once  they  were 
down  in  the  License  Bureau.  Perhaps  this  was  because 
Buckhannon  was  a  little  frightened  himself.  He  tried 
to  conceal  this;  and  then,  when  he  couldn't  conceal  it, 

356 


Ere  Fades  the  Rose! 

to  pass  it  off  with  a  joke  to  the  effect  that  he  had  never 
been  here  before.  But  he  soon  stiffened  up.  And  so 
did  Melissine. 

There  were  so  many  people  there  to  look  at  them ! 
And  all  these  people  had  to  be  encouraged. 

One  would  have  said  that  the  business  of  getting  mar 
ried  had  suddenly  become  the  principal  occupation  of 
New  York — colored  folks  down  from  Harlem,  gay  with 
grins  and  Sunday  clothes;  Italians,  Hunkies,  Russian 
Jews,  Armenians,  Japanese. 

"You  can't  blame  them  for  looking  at  us,"  Buckhan- 
non  whispered.  "We're  the  only  Americans  present." 

"But  the  girls  all  look  as  if  they  felt — just  like  I  do," 
Melissine  returned,  smiling  up  at  him  whitely. 

"Cheer  up,"  he  comforted.  "It  isn't  as  bad  as  it 
seems." 

But  Buckhannon's  own  heart — and  his  new-found 
sense  of  authority — failed  him  when  he  and  Melissine 
arrived  in  that  upper  chamber  where  the  actual  cere 
monies  were  being  performed.  Here  the  couples  were 
lined  up  two  by  two — like  animal  candidates  for  some 
new  Noah's  Ark  of  Matrimony — while  the  grinning  and 
tearful  relatives  looked  on  and  a  brace  of  aldermen  went 
through  the  formula  from  "You-Sam-Brown-an'-you- 
Alice- Jones"  on  down  to  "Kiss-your-bride." 

Buckhannon  could  feel  Melissine  tremble  at  his  side. 
It  was  a  tremor  that  had  a  response  within  his  own 
anatomy,  from  crown  to  heel,  with  the  center  of  the 
disturbance,  so  to  speak,  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

His  condition  became  such  that  he  turned  to  Melissine 

357 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

for  consolation.  It  spoke  well  for  the  future  of  both 
of  them  perhaps  that  it  was  she  who  was  ready  with  her 
consolation  now — not  only  ready  with  that  but  with  a 
solution  for  the  thing  that  was  troubling  him. 

She  caught  his  hand  in  hers.  There  was  no  one 
looking.  She  pressed  his  hand  to  her  breast. 

"We'll  not  get  married  here,"  she  said.  "I  know  a 
better  way." 


CHAPTER  LXI 
"LET  HIM  FOREVER,  ETC." 

IT  must  have  been  a  test  of  faith  and  courage,  too, 
for  Melissine,  this  proposal  of  hers.  Back  there 
in  the  old  house — which,  in  a  way,  was  as  much 
a  house  of  mystery  for  her  as  it  had  always  been  for 
the  other  dwellers  in  Cinnamon  Street — was  Partridge, 
with  that  secret  of  his,  whatever  it  was.  Would  Par 
tridge  speak  now?  And  when  he  did  speak,  was  what 
he  would  say  be  something  that  might  still  make  this 
Heaven-Selected  mate  of  hers  draw  back? 

To  Melissine  it  was  as  if  they  were  married  already, 
she  and  her  Eugene.  It  hadn't  been  so  while  they  were 
awaiting  their  turn  in  the  License  Bureau.  It  hadn't 
been  so  even  after  the  license  had  been  handed  over 
to  them.  The  feeling  that  they  were  married  had  come 
to  her  only  when  he  had  turned  to  her,  just  now,  with 
that  look  of  distress  and  appeal  in  his  eyes. 

She  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  a  mother  to  him. 
Wouldn't  she  always  shield  him,  though?  Wouldn't  she 
fight  for  him — slave  for  him — pray  for  him — yield  her 
self  to  him  heart  and  soul  ?  But  not  that,  O  Lord !  Not 
that!  "It  would  kill  me  should  anything  happen  now 
to  keep  me  from  giving  him  my  life!" 

359 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

Her  proposal  was  this : 

The  old  pastor  of  the  abandoned  chapel  next  door 
to  No.  6  was  still  alive.  For  years  he  had  been  a  pen 
sioner  of  the  Tyrones.  It  was  he  who  had  read  the 
burial  service  over  Melissine's  father,  and  over  her 
grandfather.  Wouldn't  it  be  fine  to  go  and  get  him 
to  marry  them? 

Buckhannon  thought  that  it  would. 

And  wouldn't  it  be  fine  to  get  the  old  gentleman  to 
come  to  No.  6,  so  that  the  wedding  could  be  celebrated 
there  ? 

Buckhannon  was  sure  of  it.  He  was  feeling  safer 
now  that  he  had  the  license  in  his  pocket. 

"And  it  will  be  just  as  if  father  were  there,"  thrilled 
Melissine  softly;  "and  mama,  and  Grandy,  and  poor, 
dear  Mme.  Jenesco !" 

Buckhannon  was  already  beginning  to  feel  as  any 
bridegroom  might  feel  on  the  eve  of  a  fashionable  wed 
ding.  The  women  control  such  events.  But  he  arose 
to  the  occasion. 

"And  you  could  put  on  one  of  those  Valliere  dresses," 
he  said;  "such  as  your  father  loved — and  I  love." 

"Mother's  wedding-dress,"  cried  Melissine. 

"And  we  could  put  up  a  lot  of  flowers — make  a  floral 
chapel,"  Buckhannon  proposed,  his  mind  running  back 
to  something  of  that  nature  that  he  had  seen  out  home 
in  his  childhood.  Not  that  it  mattered  very  much.  Not 
for  him.  Nothing  mattered  for  him  except  that  they 
should  be  married,  and  that  he  should  make  Melissine 

360 


"Let  Him  Forever,  Etc." 

happy  for  the  rest  of  her  days.     (People  in  the  street 
looked  after  them  and  smiled.) 

He  was  making  her  happy  now.  There  was  hardly 
a  ghost  of  a  cloud  left  on  her  horizon,  even  if  there 
was  that  much.  She  had  her  Eugene  to  thank  for  that. 
And  she  did  thank  him  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
to  the  top  of  her  soul.  And  her  soul  soared  heaven 
ward. 

"I  suppose  that  the  time  has  come  to  tell  you,  sir," 
said  Partridge. 

This  was  the  first  moment  that  he  and  Buckhannon 
had  been  alone  together  since  Buckhannon  returned  to 
the  house  with  Melissine  from  the  City  Hall.  There 
had  been  much  to  do.  There  had  been  a  stress  of  emo 
tion  quite  apart  from  these  external  activities. 

"Tell  me  nothing,"  said  Buckhannon,  clapping  an  arm 
about  Partridge's  shoulders. 

"It  has  to  do  with  certain  financial  arrangements,  sir," 
said  Partridge.  "You  may  know  that  I  have  been  en 
trusted  for  a  number  of  years  with  the  stewardship  of 
the  Tyrone  fortune." 

"Listen !"  Buckhannon  commanded. 

He  and  Partridge  were  in  the  drawing-room.  All  the 
doors  were  open.  There  came  a  froth  of  music,  a  clash 
of  feminine  voices,  then  music  again.  That  was  Meles- 
sine  making  her  first  attempt  at  the  "Wedding  March" 
from  "Lohengrin."  The  wedding  was  to  be  celebrated 
in  the  music-room  where  all  the  Tyrones  could  bear 
witness.  In  there  they  had  constructed  the  floral  arch— 

361 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

pink  roses,  chiefly,  from  the  climbing  vines  at  the  side 
of  the  house.  It  seemed  as  if  the  music  and  the  voices 
constituted  a  breeze,  and  as  if  this  breeze  blew  into  the 
drawing-room  now,  bringing  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers 
along. 

But  presently  these  sounds  ceased,  and  Partridge  was 
for  speaking  again. 

"I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty,"  he  began. 

"Tell  me  this,"  Buckhannon  interrupted.  "Is  is  some 
thing  that  concerns  Melissine?" 

"It  is,  sir." 

"Does  she  know  anything  about  it?" 

"No,  sir.  It  was  something  that  I  never  even  com 
municated  to  her  father." 

"I  see.  It's  some  secret  that  you  have  been  keeping 
to  yourself  all  these  years." 

"It  was  because " 

"Never  mind!  Don't  tell  me  anything  unless  I  ask," 
Btockhannon  ordered  with  friendly  'authority.  "And 
would  it  disturb  Melissine's  happiness  if  she  knew  any 
thing  about  it?" 

Partridge  nodded  an  affirmation  that  was  a  signal 
of  distress. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Buckhannon,  "why,  for  the  love 
of  Mike,  do  you  want  to  say  anything  at  all  for  ?  You're 
devoted  to  her,  aren't  you — you're  her  Grandy,  aren't 
you — you  want  to  see  her  happy  for  all  the  rest  of  her 
days,  don't  you?" 

"Heaven  grant  it !" 

"Shake  hands,"  said  Buckhannon.  They  shook.  But 

362 


"Let  Him  Forever,  Etc.*9 

Euckhannon  could  see  that  Partridge  was  still  far  from 
being  convinced  that  all  was  well. 

It  was  with  the  purpose  of  further  persuading  him 
that  Buckhannon  said: 

"Whatever  it  is,  keep  it  dark  until  after  the  wedding. 
I  had  a  grandfather  once  who  used  to  say  that  secrets 
and  mystery  and  things  like  that  were  all  that  kept  folks 
from  committing  suicide.  It  makes  life  like  a  story. 
We  go  on  reading,  or  living,  just  to  see  how  it's  going 
to  end." 

And  that  was  all  of  what  Partridge  might  have  had 
to  say.  It  was,  until  later  in  the  day,  when  the  old 
preacher  arrived — he  who  had  been  a  pensioner  of  the 
Tyrones  for  so  many  years — and  Melissine,  tremulous, 
was  dressed  in  the  bridal  gown  that  had  been  her 
mother's ;  all  this,  and  so  on  down  through  the  ceremony 
to  that  part  of  it  where  the  old  preacher  said  that  if 
there  was  any  one  who  had  something  to  say  why  the 
marriage  should  not  take  place,  let  him  say  it  now  or 
forever  afterward  hold  his  peace 

The  preacher  was  very  old.  He  had  lost  his  place. 
Perhaps  there,  for  a  moment  or  so,  he  had  even  for 
gotten  what  he  was  quite  about.  Was  this  a  marriage 
or  a  funeral — a  christening  or  an  examination  of  candi 
dates  for  admission  to  the  church? 

There  was  a  silence. 

Under  the  floral  arch  that  had  been  constructed  where 
Nathan  Tyrone  had  lain,  Melissine  and  Eugene  were 
kneeling  side  by  side.  His  head  was  down — like  the  head 

363 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

of  a  young  knight  about  to  be  accepted  into  the  com 
panionship;  but  Melissine's  face  was  uplifted,  seraphic. 
So  might  her  mother  have  looked  twenty  years  ago — 
the  blond  curls,  the  same  tender  curves  that  made  a 
profile  of  strength  and  grace,  and  that  expression  in 
her  eyes  that  most  brides  have — the  look  of  him  who 
stood  on  a  peak  in  Darien  and  saw  the  Pacific — that 
other  ocean  of  mystery  and  enchanted  islands. 

Just  back  of  them  the  two  living  witnesses — old  Par 
tridge,  very  white,  appareled  in  his  best,  and  then,  the 
Woman  in  Black. 

Partridge  was  so  moved  that  every  now  and  then  a 
little  click  came  into  his  throat  that  was  almost  audible. 
His  face  was  the  face  of  age,  long-suffering  and  holy, 
the  physical  part  of  it  burned  away,  nothing  left  but  the 
transparent  spirit,  so  that  to  look  at  him  made  you 
imagine  that  he  was  there  merely  as  the  envoy  of  some 
foreign  court,  and  that  once  the  ceremony  was  over  he 
would  soon  be  gone. 

But  was  Partridge  going  to  speak?  He  knew  every 
thing.  Was  there  something  he  had  to  say  why  this 
marriage  should  not  be? 

Again,  there  was  Mme.  Jenesco — still  the  Woman  in 
Black,  but  no  longer  the  Woman  of  Babylon.  Steadily, 
steadily,  at  fixed  intervals — -like  the  flow  of  certain 
geysers — two  tears  overflowed  from  those  well-deep  eyes 
of  hers. 

Wasn't  she  going  to  have  something  to  say  ?  She  also 
was  deeply  versed  in  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  the 
world.  Was  she  going  to  say  the  preventive  words? 

364 


"Let  Him  Forever,  Etc:' 

"Stop!  Marriage  is  a  fraud!  Run  wild,  my  sisters! 
Look  at  me!  What  is  purity — old-fashioned  goodness 
' — mothers — and  grandmothers !  Behold  this  bride !  Cor 
rupt  her — send  her  to  the  streets — the  brothel — the  jail 
— the  hospital — and  the  morgue — else  she  nourish  chil 
dren  who  will  be  clean  and  strong,  teach  them  love  and 
reverence,  make  men  and  women  of  them  to  serve  the 
State. 

But  Mme.  Jenesco  merely  touched  her  tears  away  at 
intervals. 

Then  Partridge  spoke — just  a  whisper,  though,  and 
a  single  word.  "Belle,"  he  said.  And  he  passed  Mme. 
Jenesco's  arm  under  his  own. 

And  as  if  this  were  the  signal  he  had  been  waiting 
for — or  the  inspiration — the  preacher  spoke  the  conclud 
ing  words. 

"Amen!    Amen!" 

And  several  of  the  pink  roses  let  their  petals  fall — 
like  a  blessing — with  perfect  generosity — giving  all  they 
had. 


CHAPTER  LXII 

THE   INEVITABLE    HOUR 

PARTRIDGE  had  given  some  sort  of  an  inde 
cisive  rendezvous  to  Buckhannon ;  or  was  it  Buck- 
hannon  who  lacked  decision?  Wasn't  it  just  pos 
sible  that  Buckhannon  himself  had  come  to  fear  any 
revelation  that  the  old  butler  might  make  as  much  as 
Partridge  himself  dreaded  it? 

Partridge  came  into  the  music  room  of  No.  6 — there 
where  Nathan  Tyrone  had  lain  in  state,  where  Melissine 
herself  had  in  some  way  been  translated,  and  where 
the  portrait  of  that  earlier  Melissine  smiled  down — at 
death  and  marriage  as  if,  after  all,  these  both  were 
happy  incidents.  Partridge  lit  the  candles  at  the  side 
of  the  portrait.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  it.  Here  was 
the  symbol  of  his  earthly  faith. 

"Hello!" — and  there  was  Buckhannon. 

"Why,"  said  Partridge;  "I  wasn't  expecting  you  so 
soon." 

"Melissine's  asleep,"  said  Buckhannon,  guardedly.  "I 
thought  that  we  two " 

He  put  his  arm  about  the  old  man's  shoulders,  pressed 
him  into  a  chair,  himself  drew  another  chair  closer. 
Partridge  accepted  the  chair  like  one  who  is  very  tired, 

366 


The  Inevitable  Hour 

had  gone  a  long  race,  had  done  all  he  could,  and  was 
ready  to  forego  further  effort.  He  leaned  back.  His 
white  face  was  up. 

"I  have  no  right  to  keep  the  truth  from  you  longer," 
the  old  man  said.  "I've  tried  to  do  my  duty.  If  I  have 
erred,  God — and,  I  believe,  you,  sir — will  understand." 

"Trust  me,"  said  Buckhannon,  with  fervor. 

"I  couldn't  tell  before,"  said  Partridge;  "it  would  have 
brought  such  shame  on  Mr.  Tyrone,  likewise  on  Melis- 
sine." 

"Trust  me,"  said  Buckhannon  again;  but  now  he  was 
not  quite  so  cocksure.  He  was  very  alert. 

"May  I  ask,  sir,"  Partridge  asked,  "if  you  are  a  man 
of  means?" 

"My  family  is  considered  rich,"  said  Buckhannon.  "I 
inherited  something  from  my  grandmother — plenty  to 
live  on.  But  I  could  raise  a  pretty  big  amount.  You 
bet  I  could,  old  man.  How  much  do  you  need?" 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  that,  sir;  only,  it  does  simplify  the 
matter." 

"How  so?" 

"After  my  death,  Melis — Mrs.  Buckhannon,  sir " 

"She'll  always  be  Melissine  for  you !" 

" will  inherit — everything.     But  until  then " 

"After  your  death?" 

"After  my  death,"  whispered  Partridge.  "Oh,  sir, 
there  have  been  times  when  I  would  gladly  have  passed 
over,  as  they  say.  It  would  so  have  simplified  matters !" 

"What?    How?" 

"The  elder  Mr.  Tyrone,  Nathan's  father,  saw  to  that. 

367 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

He  employed  Judge  Bancroft  who,  as  you  doubtless 
know,  was  a  very  able  man.  Both  of  them  seemed  to 
foresee — and  forestall — any  possible  weakness  on  my 
part.  I  was  bound  hand  and  foot.  There  was  no  es 
cape.  And  yet,  can't  you  see  how  it  was?  Had  the 
slightest  breath  of  suspicion  reached  them  it  would  have 
been  shipwreck,  of  their  lives,  not  to  mention  my  own." 

"You  mean,  that  there  was  something  about  the  woman 
— or  girl — that  Mr.  Nathan  Tyrone,  Melissine's  father, 
brought  here  to  the  house?" 

"That  was  it.  That  was  the  beginning  of  it  all.  That 
was  thirty  years  ago.  That  was  the  cause  of  the  estrange 
ment  between  Mr.  Nathan  and  his  father.  They  were 
both  proud  men — sensitive,  as  unyielding — as  unyield 
ing  as  General  Grant,  sir — and  yet  as  gentle,  as  gentle 
— as  gentle  as  the  lady  that  Mr.  Nathan  brought  back 
with  him  from  Paris,  Melissine's  mother.  And,  nat 
urally,  when  the  elder  Mr.  Tyrone  refused  to  see  her, 
why,  Mr.  Nathan,  who  had  been  willing  to  make  peace, 
again  rebelled." 

"But  after  the  elder  Mr.  Tyrone  died  ?" 

"That  was  when  my  trouble — if  I  may  so  speak  of  it 
•—became  acute,"  said  Partridge.  "Not  immediately! 
Mr.  Nathan  was  then  in  Paris.  He  was  greatly  pre 
occupied  by  the  health  of  Mme.  Tyrone.  Later,  when! 
she  died,  leaving  Melissine,  I  was  forced  to  tell  him 
my  first  lie.  After  that,  my  life  became  a  lie." 

"Impossible!    You  were  always  so  devoted." 

"I  lied  to  him.    I  lied  to  Melissine." 

Buckhannon  heard  a  half-stifled  breath  at  the  door. 

368 


The  Inevitable 

He  turned.  There  was  a  white  shadow  there  in  the 
candlelight.  It  was  Melissine  herself.  Evidently,  she 
had  awaked  and,  not  finding  Buckhannon,  had  come  to 
look  for  him.  She  had  heard  that  last  declaration  of 
Partridge,  had  started  forward.  But  Buckhannon 
stopped  her  with  a  gesture.  Partridge  was  oblivious 
of  everything  except  his  own  thought. 

"Lied  to  her!  I  don't  believe  it.  That  is,  I  don't 
believe  it  was  a  bad  lie." 

"Not  a  bad  lie,  I  hope.  No,  it  was  meant  to  save  them 
pain.  It  has  lasted  now  for  almost  twenty  years." 

Buckhannon  thought.  He  had  an  eye  and  an  ear 
for  Melissine.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  were  standing  in 
front  of  him  and  speaking  to  him,  he  was  that  much 
aware  of  all  she  felt. 

"Get  it  off  your  mind,"  he  said.  "Melissine  loves 

you "  He  would  have  liked  to  add  that  it  wasn't 

otherwise  with  himself.  He  brought  the  sentiment  out 
in  another  way.  "You're  a  sort  of  a  father  to  us  both," 
he  said.  "We  have  a  right  to  share  your  trouble.  Do 
you  suppose  that  anything  you  could  tell  us  now — or 
anything  that  you  may  have  done  in  the  past — would 
change  our  feeling  for  you?" 

This  made  Partridge  weep,  silently,  with  fine  repres 
sion. 

Buckhannon  now  reached  out  back  of  him  and  found 
a  hold  on  Melissine's  fingers,  for  Melissine  had  come 
creeping  close,  eager  to  sympathize  and  console. 

"Or  do  you  think,"  Buckhannon  pursued,  "that  any- 

369 


The  House-  With  a  Bad  Name 

thing — anything! — could  make  me  less  proud  of  having 
married  Melissine,  or  make  me  love  her  less  ?" 

"It  was  for  her  sake,"  said  Partridge. 

"I  believe  you." 

"And. her  father's." 

"Tell  me  what  it  was." 

Partridge  let  himself  go  in  silent  prayer.  It  was  so 
still  in  Cinnamon  Street  that  the  organ-notes  of  the  city 
tided  in,  softly — a  De  Profundis  for  all  the  martyrs 
otherwise  unsung.  What  was  coming?  What  would  it 
be,  the  cry  of  this  old  man?  And  what  would  their  cry 
be — the  two  who  waited? 

"They  were  disinherited,"  Partridge  whispered. 

"Disinherited!     Is  that  all?" 

"All!     All!" 

"Why,  that's  happened  a  thousand  times." 

"Not  like  this.  Suppose  that  Mr.  Nathan — or  Melis 
sine — had  known  that  they  were  living  in  a  house  not 
legally  their  own — spending  money  that  was  not  legally 
their  own!" 

"Whose  was  it?" 

"Theirs,  in  the  sight  of  God." 

"But  in  fact? — in  the  eyes  of  the  law?" 

"Mine!" 

"Yours!    And  you  never  told?" 

"I  lied  about  it.  I  told  Mr.  Nathan  that  his  father 
had  died  without  making  a  will — that  I  would  arrange 
all  the  details  with  Judge  Bancroft.  There  was  no  legal 
recourse." 

"And  it  was  that " 

370 


The  Inevitable  Hvwr 

"That,  for  the  past  twenty  years — when  Mr.  Nathan 
required  funds  to  buy  this  blessed  picture,  when  he 
generously  doubled  my  salary.  Oh,  it  was  an  answer  to 
my  prayers  that  he  would  never  occupy  himself  with 
worldly  details.  If  the  matter  had  ever  come  into  the 
courts — if  a  question  had  ever  arisen  as  to  my  right 
to  draw  on  the  family  funds " 

Melissine  gave  an  audible  little  gasp.  She  had  been 
standing  there  wavering. 

"Grandy !" 

She  came  around  and  put  her  arms  about  Partridge's 
head.  She  kneeled  in  front  of  him. 

"My  darling  Grandy!" 

"Eh!    Eh!"  went  Partridge. 

And  he  sank  a  little  lower  in  his  chair,  gazing  at 
Melissine  as  long  as  he  could,  so  that  he  could  read  the 
look  in.  her  face,  before  his  eyes  should  fill  again. 


CHAPTER  LXIII 

THEY   VANISH 

1AM  sure  that  it  was  that  way  with  him  always," 
said  Melissine. 
This    was    years    afterward.       Melissine  was  the 
matron  now.    She  was  mature.    But  she  was  more  beau 
tiful  than  ever.     She  would  keep  on  getting  more  beau 
tiful  than  ever — as  is  the  way  with  women  of  heart  and 
understanding. 

"I  am  sure  that  when  the  dear  Lord  spoke  to  Par 
tridge  there  was  nothing  that  He  could  have  said  that 
would  have  pleased  Partridge  better  than:  'Well  done, 
thou  good  and  faithful  servant !'  " 

A  lovely  look  of  tender  recollection  had  come  into 
Melissine's  face.  Buckhannon  pressed  her  hand.  They 
had  driven  down  from  their  up-town  place  for  a  look 
at  Cinnamon  Street.  But  Cinnamon  Street  was  changed. 
Gone  was  Tony  Zamboni's ;  gone  the  druggist ;  gone  the 
chapel  and  the  churchyard;  gone  old  No.  6!  There 
were  warehouses  there,  and  a  new  garage.  It  must  have 
been  a  spirit-picture  that  brought  that  look  into  Melis 
sine's  face. 

"He  was  the  perfect  gentleman,"  said  Melissine  fondly. 

"He  was  all  of  that,"  Buckhannon  agreed.    "I'm  glad 

372 


They  Vanish 

that  he  lived  to  influence  Mme.  Jenesco,  permanently, 
as  he  influenced  us.    Where  is  she  now?" 

"Still  running  the  day-nursery,  and  happy!  I  saw 
her  only  yesterday." 

They  relapsed  into  silence  for  a  while. 

They  were  still  standing  there — they  had  left  their 
car  around  the  corner  in  the  granite-paved  avenue — 
when  two  very  old  men  came  hobbling  down  the  street, 
side  by  side.  Both  of  these  old  men  were  shrunken,  but 
one  had  been  large  and  the  other  had  been  small.  He 
who  had  been  large  had  a  bony  shaven  face  out  of  which 
stared  a  pair  of  fixed  and  owlish  eyes.  He  who  had 
been  small — and  was  now  smaller  yet — had  a  furtive 
look  about  him.  He  had  a  scraggly  gray  beard  on  his 
chin,  but  for  all  that  he  looked  like  a  decrepit  old  rat — 
"a  rat  that  had  seen  a  cat." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Buckhannon,  saluting  them. 

"Eh?"  said  the  rat. 

The  rat's  companion  merely  stared. 

"We  were  looking  for  Cinnamon  Street,"  said  Buck- 
hannon. 

"Eugene!"    Melissine  chided  him  softly. 

But  Buckhannon  took  her  arm  under  his. 

"We  were  looking  for  Cinnamon  Street,"  he  said ;  "No. 
6  Cinnamon  Street." 

"That's  the  garage  over  yonder,"  said  he  of  the  bony 
face. 

"There  must  have  been  some  mistake,"  said  Buckhan 
non.  "This  No.  6  was  a  fine  old  house — a  beautiful  old 
house — in  which  some  beautiful  people  lived." 

373 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

The  human  rat  now  began  to  giggle.  He  stamped  the 
sidewalk  with  his  cane.  The  other  didn't  smile.  He 
merely  stared.  It  was  he  who  spoke. 

"You  mean  the  old  No.  6,"  said  he. 

"It  must  have  been,"  said  Buckhannon. 

"It  couldn't  have  been,"  said  the  Owl,  "because  the 
house  I  mean  wasn't  beautiful.  Neither  was  the  people 
who  lived  in  it." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"For  upward  of  thirty  years  I  was  the  policeman  on 
this  beat,"  said  he  who  had  now  revealed  himself  to  be 
Hickcock.  "It  was  a  house  with  a  bad  name — such  a 
hen-coop  as  even  New  York  might  be  leary  about !" 

"But  why  did  it  have  a  bad  name?"  asked  Buckhannon. 

"Ask  my  friend  here,"  Hickcock  said  dispassionately. 
"He  ought  to  know.  He  kept  the  drug-store  here  right 
across  from  it." 

The  druggist,  thus  appealed  to,  stopped  giggling  and 
became  cautious.  He  glanced  about  as  if  afraid  of  eaves 
droppers. 

"They  say  it  was  haunted,"  he  confided. 

"Haunted?" 

"Some  queer  things  take  place  in  a  city  like  this,"  said 
Hickcock,  with  the  air  of  one  who  means  more  than  his 
words  imply. 

"That's  right,"  the  druggist  giggled. 

Hickcock  turned  his  owlish  eyes  on  the  druggist, 
brought  them  back  to  Buckhannon.  Hickcock  soberly 
pointed  a  finger  at  his  head,  meaning  that  the  druggist 
was  not  quite  responsible,  then  said: 

374 


They  Vanish 

"I  once  had  a  friend  who  said  that  old  men  and  old 
houses  are  all  haunted.  I  don't  know  what  he  meant. 
But  I  know  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  He  was  that  kind 
• — except  when  he  was  sober." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Buckhannon,  meaning  that  the  inter 
view  was  closed.  And  the  two  old  cronies  continued 
their  way.  "There  goes  the  world  in  general,"  said  Buck 
hannon,  pressing  the  tender  arm  that  was  under  his 
own. 

"Just  ignorance,"  Melissine  forgave  them,  with  a  tear 
ful  little  laugh. 

"Just  ignorance,"  Buckhannon  agreed;  "and  the  lack 
of  charity  that  ignorance  breeds.  Houses  and  hearts 
— we've  got  to  know  what  goes  on  inside  of  them  before 
we  can  judge." 

Melissine  returned  the  pressure  of  his  arm. 

There  for  a  fleeting  moment,  it  was  as  if  all  that  had 
vanished  had  returned  again — old  No.  6,  of  the  green 
blinds  and  the  Colonial  door ;  the  smithy  to  one  side,  with 
its  ailanthus-tree ;  and  the  churchyard  on  the  other,  with 
its  abandoned  chapel  and  its  flowering  locusts.  A  still 
ness  gathered  in  the  street.  Once  more  the  air  was  per 
fumed.  Then,  down  the  stoop  of  No.  6 — the  spectral 
presence  of  it — there  came — for  Buckhannon,  at  least — 
the  nimble  old  servant  who  was  Cartridge,  followed  by 
the  stately  Nathan  Tyrone  and  his  fair,  old-fashioned 
daughter. 

Melissine  sighed.     She  had  followed  his  thought. 

"They  vanish,"  said  Buckhannon. 

375 


The  House  With  a  Bad  Name 

"But  we  love  them  still,"  said  Melissine,  "and  shall 
love  them  always." 

They  turned  and  slowly  walked  away,  themselves  thus 
vanishing  from  Cinnamon  Street  forever. 


.THE  END! 


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